Sowerbutt In Ireland

Sowerbutt sipped his tea and ate the slices of honey cake that Polly had bought from the Refreshment Rooms in High Bob as the locals called Poplar High Street.

“We enjoyed our break in Dublin, didn’t we?”
“Yes, when we eventually got there, James,” said Polly, who had not been the same since their return from the Emerald Isle. She was worried about the talk of bombings and the imminent German invasion. His assurances about his Blackshirt contacts were one thing, but she and the girls could be hurt in the fighting.
“But it was disappointing, I admit,” Sowerbutt said. “With the Church there threatening eternal damnation, there’s just not the business. I checked the books for that half-share in the brothel we were offered, but it didn't add up. Not much business on the side either. The port is tiny and nothing much is coming in.
“Still it was good to catch up with the Blueshirts I knew in Spain and we’ll be getting some deliveries soon of Irish beef and butter.”
Polly smiled: “Be glad of some decent food. The rations are hopeless, that is if you can find anything. It is alright those politicians talking about fighting the Jerries on the beaches. We’re wasting away. Talk about slim figures, walking skeletons more like. Thank goodness for those tins of steak you got hold of.”
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