Roland Moore - Land Girls - The Homecoming - A moving and heartwarming wartime saga

“No,” Vince said, the word coming out a little too abruptly. Amos Ackley stopped in his tracks at this unexpected and potentially confrontational utterance.

“What?”

“I need a deposit.” Vince smiled.

“How much?”

“Half,” Vince said, eyeing Amos without breaking his gaze.

A shark-like grin spread on Amos’ face.

“Get lost.”

“Come on, you’re already stiffing me on this deal. I need something,” Vince replied. His throat was hoarse and his chest felt like it would explode with his pumping heart.

He knew that Amos was greedy. He knew that the gangster could make five hundred pounds selling all that sirloin. Slowly Amos’s hand went to his pocket. He pulled out a wad of bank notes. He counted out one hundred pounds and held it out in his jewel-encrusted paw.

“You’d better be there, otherwise I’ll turn London upside down,” Amos growled.

Vince reassured Amos that he would be: he wanted the rest of the money, after all. He tucked the notes into the inside pocket of his cheap jacket and said thanks, before turning on his heels and walking away. It was the longest walk of Vince’s life: with each step he was fearful that Amos would change his mind or he’d rumble the con and Moustache Man would whack him on the back of the head.

But Vince made it out of the warehouse and found himself in the cool rain of the alley. He glanced up as he walked so the water could cool his hot, tired eyes. And then he strode away as quickly as he could. He had half the money. Now to con the rest.

One hour later, Glory was waiting in an ambulance on Barnes Common. She’d killed the lights and was listening for any sound in the semi-darkness. The moon provided some illumination but she couldn’t see much. Shadows were all around and soon Glory imagined danger in every one of them. Any sound startled her, from the cawing of a crow somewhere in the trees to the whistle of a man seeking his dog. Her hands were clammy so she rubbed them dry on her dress. Swallowing hard, she started to hum a tune – ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ – to pass the time and to distract herself from the horror stories playing out in her mind.

She was wearing her best jacket and her white blouse. As always, the cloche hat sat incongruously on her head.

Suddenly, there was a tap on the window. Glory jumped out of her skin. But it was only Vince. He opened the door and whispered to her in an urgent voice, worried that someone might be in the dark listening.

He told her that he’d got one hundred pounds in his pocket and that Amos was on his way to complete the deal. Glory was nervous. She pleaded that they should quit while they were ahead. Take the hundred and scarper. It was a lot of money and they could get a long way away with it.

“Gotta keep your nerve,” Vince said. “In twenty minutes, we can double it. And then we’ll be gone. Promise.”

Glory looked unsure, scared. At this moment, the already young-looking seventeen-year-old looked about twelve – a nervous and petrified child with a ridiculous hat. Vince patted the back of her hand where her fingers were clenched tightly to the steering wheel.

“Think of your cottage,” Vince pleaded, playing her. “Hold your nerve, yeah?”

Glory hoped he was right. She wished she could be anywhere else. It was so easy how this had happened – so easy how trouble could find you if you made the wrong decision; took a path of least resistance because that’s what the charming man in your life told you was best.

Vince went to the back of the ambulance and unlatched the back doors. The inside had been modified and instead of a bed and hospital supplies, the back was full of wooden crates. Vince moved the topmost crate nearer and opened the wooden lid. Inside were twenty greaseproof packages nestled in straw. Vince opened a greaseproof pack and looked at the succulent red steak within. Glistening in the moonlight, it looked wet with blood. Satisfied, he wrapped it up and put it back in the box.

The scam would work because of the fifty or so wooden crates; this was the only one that contained any steak. The other identical boxes were weighted with straw and wood to make them feel as if they contained steak as well. When Amos got here, it was crucial that he opened and inspected this one box. If he picked any other, then he would immediately realise that Vince was trying to con him. And the consequences would be severe. It wouldn’t only be the steak that was covered in blood.

Glory had asked him, when she was pacing around his bedsit, wearing a furrow in the already threadbare carpet, how he would ensure that Amos Ackley opened the right box. How could he do that when there was only a one in fifty chance? Vince had smiled a reassuring grin. “Magic,” he’d said. And with that he produced – with a magician-like flourish – a hair grip from behind his hand. As if on cue, a strand of Glory’s hair fell down over her face. She was impressed with the trick, but it didn’t relieve her of the knot of cold fear in her stomach. It was all very well making your friend laugh in the comfort of your own room, but a different matter when you so much relied on getting it right, in the middle of a common in the dead of night.

So how would Vince ensure that Amos would open the box?

With ten minutes to go, Vince wished Glory luck. He told her that if anything went wrong she should run for it and save herself. There would be no point in them both being killed. Glory hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She shook Vince’s hand. He looked at her young and innocent face and smiled. Did he feel a pang of guilt for involving her in this crazy scam? “See you, Glory.”

“See you, Vince,” she said.

Vince kissed her on the cheek.

And then Glory walked off into the night.

Now Vince had been right. The plan would involve magic, or rather the magician’s trick of misdirecting an audience. You want a person to pick a certain card? You misdirect them. You want a person to lift a particular cup where you haven’t hidden the bean? You misdirect them. Vince knew that Amos would want to see the back of the ambulance. Naturally, he would want to inspect the merchandise he was buying. The thing was, instead of a van full of meat, Vince had one box which contained meat. When Amos came to inspect the merchandise, he wouldn’t be very impressed if Vince chose the box, opened it and showed him the contents. He’d smell a rat. No, so the trick would be to make Amos think he had free rein in his choice of box and then to switch the chosen box for the only one that contained any meat. But how?

Misdirection.

That’s where the fact that all the boxes looked identical came into play. Vince would ask Amos if he wanted to see the stock. Amos would pick a box at random. Vince would get the selected box from the van. On the outside it would look like the box that actually contained the meat and it would even weigh the same, thanks to the weight of wood inside it. But before they could open it, a carefully timed distraction would occur.

Misdirection.

Identical boxes.

Glory, hiding in the dark, would provide this distraction by blowing a policeman’s whistle. She had to do it at the perfect time – when Vince had removed the box selected by Amos from the ambulance, but before Amos opened it. During this distraction, Vince would switch the boxes, for the one underneath the ambulance. The one that contained the meat. And then Amos would open the staged box, see the meat and be satisfied. Then he’d hand over the other one hundred pounds.

That was the plan.

Simple.

Glory’s house in the country and Vince’s life as a club owner depended on it.

At five minutes ahead of schedule, Amos Ackley appeared behind the van. Moustache Man, Eyebrows and two other men were with him. The men were jittery, moving their feet around in nervous agitation. In the distance, Vince could see the lights of the butcher’s van parked up, engine running, the exhaust pushing out white smoke in soft clouds over the dewy grass. Vince couldn’t be certain if more men were in the van. Could there be more thugs inside? It was a risk. There might be more people watching who might not take their eyes off him when the police whistle went off. Misdirection was all well and good, but you had to control where people were looking. Vince suddenly felt like running away.