Sowerbutt's Business

Polly jabbed Sowerbutt in the ribs. “Luton is booming, awash with government contracts. And the Ministry of Supply pays its cheques reasonably quickly with few questions asked. The bike factory is doing brilliantly with the help of your scrap-metal contacts. But I want to talk to you about timber for the new joinery.”

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Sowerbutt's Surprise

“What is it, Sorbay? Forgotten who I am?” the red-haired woman snapped, watching her man, poring over papers in the office. Sowerbutt looked up with a start. “Polly, my dear. What a lovely surprise,” he smiled as he rushed round the desk to hug his lady. “I thought you were busy in Luton, expanding the House of Polly.” Polly said. “Somebody has got to earn a crust. What are you up to? I’m warning you, Sorbay, don’t keep anything from me.”

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Sowerbutt's Hero

“Come,” the voice snapped. Major Graham Hatter, known by his men as the Mad Hatter, opened the door, took three paces, stood to attention and saluted in front of the desk. The slight military man, dressed as a brigadier in the Irish Guards, continued writing. “At ease, major,” John said at last, opening a file on the desk. “Major Hatter of the 60^th Rifles,” he read. “Commissioned 1935, temporary captain September 1939, acting major May 1940, substantive rank July 1940. Mentioned in Despatches May 5, Military Cross May 25 for bravery in action at Calais.”

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Sowerbutt's Rivals

“Tell me what’s happening on the street, Jack. You are my eyes and ears in Whitechapel.” “Well, Mr Sorbay, the Reds don’t know what to do with McGaskie banged up. The idealists want to take the fight to the Blackshirts - you and your friends - while the pragmatists and Radio Moscow urge cooperation and peace. Radio Moscow is winning the argument for the moment."

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Sowerbutt's Shirts

Jack Shakes shook his head. “What do you do with your lovely shirts? My boys and I work all night, cutting and sewing and stitching works of art, beautiful shirts, and you splatter them in blood and gore. My better customers look after what I make for them. But you, Mr Sorbay, words fail me.”

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Sowerbutt's Plot

The Irishman spread a map on the kitchen table. “This is the A11 running up to Norfolk. The English Army sends convoys up the road once or twice a week, delivering supplies to their camps. You’re going to ambush one of them and deliver the goods to this village. Give you a chance to shoot some English soldiers.”
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Sowerbutt's Anger

The man snapped. “Not that it’s any of your business. But if you must know, I’m Joe McCormack, brother of poor Jimmy, who was strung up by the English bastards at Winson Green in February. You’d say I’m prime material to be a Special Branch informer, wouldn’t you? Use your commonsense if you’ve got any.”

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Sowerbutt's Threat

The pasty-faced man lit a Player’s from his pocket and blew smoke in Cahill’s direction. “Please yourself, Tommy boy, you do what you think you must. You know the Army Council will send the Linen Lads across if one of their couriers goes missing. They’ve dealt with more traitors than you’ve had hot dinners. Their speciality is sawing up their victims - while still breathing.”

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Sowerbutt's Soap

Taking a deep breath, Maud said: “Well, it’s this way, Miss Polly. There’s no nice soap around for ladies. Mum and I thought we would make some ourselves. We’ve got oak drying in the barn for the lye and there’s plenty of rapeseed in the fallow fields and hedgerows. The man at the abattoir in Thurrock is happy to swap animal fats for rabbits. Goat’s milk makes soap really creamy, so I’ve put the word out for some goats."

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Sowerbutt's Ladies

“Chairs for the ladies, Percy. Where are your manners?” Maud said as she showed Polly and Dot into the  family room in the farmhouse. “I’ve got dandelion tea, if that is to your taste, and I’ve made some acorn shortbread which I’ve smothered in honey.”

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Sowerbutt's Informant

“Harry Knight?” Sowerbutt frowned. “Give me a minute, I’m good with names.” He put the telephone down, then suddenly smiled. “The Hospital Tavern, you’re the landlord. We met the other day. Yes, I did say I would pay for information. A couple of Irish lads have been to the Tavern, asking about the Family and me. Wanted to know how many men we had, what we get up to and where they could find us."

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Sowerbutt's BBC

A Birmingham listener was quoted in the report: “I’m no Jerry lover, that Lord Haw-Haw bloke is an idiot. But I want to know what’s going on with the war; the Beeb never tells you a thing.”
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Sowerbutt's Broadcast

Lord Haw-Haw spoke about heavy raid on London the previous night. “The gangsters and gigolos, who broadcast for Mr Churchill’s puppet BBC, have been dealt a fatal blow with Broadcasting House in Portland Square reduced to rubble. These rascals and rogues are scrambling around the ruins of a once great city to find some dark corner to set up their microphones and start peddling their filthy lies again.”

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Sowerbutt's Enemies

The staff downstairs in Dunn & Co, gentlemen’s outfitters, in Rochester High Street, would have been horrified to learn that Elsa’s late father was a German wine merchant who married an English girl while Paul was a former Berlin actor and dancer who had perfected his English at a party school in Hamburg. 

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Sowerbutt's Tragedy

A haunted look appeared in the teacher’s eyes. “The terrible bombing, the poor children. Bodies everywhere, I see them all the time, Mr Sorbay, our children from South Halsville. I see their staring faces, covered in dust and soot. They scream, but there’s no noise. Grasping hands, flames and falling walls. Tears, endless tears. The little boy who lost his legs.”

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Sowerbutt's Bombs

“The Palace of Westminster, Prime Minister. St Stephen’s Cloisters has been badly damaged,” Brendan Bracken said. Churchill ate a strip of ham balanced on a finger of toast. “Yes, yes, Brendan. We will inspect the ruins this morning once you have made the arrangements. Make sure the neutral press are there, especially the American radio people."

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Sowerbutt's Opportunity

Churchill said: “A silver lining to every cloud. Young Tommy Lascelles has been on the telephone from the Palace. The Fuhrer’s fury has spurred His Majesty into action; the Royal collection is to be moved at last.” Churchill had been pressing King George to move the Royal valuables to safekeeping since kissing his Monarch’s hand to become Prime Minister on the fateful evening of May 10, 1940.

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Sowerbutt's Blitz

“The bombing, Prime Minister,” Brendan Bracken said wearily, running his hand through his red hair. “Another night of disaster. The Palace of Westminster, the Tower, a mine destroyed the Langham for heaven’s sake,  Broadcasting House, Queen’s Hall, Druce’s, the East End as usual, Teeside, the South Coast. The Rollmop’s airborne minions were insatiable. Our defences are stretched to the limit."
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