Sowerbutt's Wife

Sowerbutt looked serious. “I’m married.” The slap resounded around the flat. “You bastard, Sorbay,” Polly shouted. 

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Sowerbutt's Words

Polly snapped. “Stop talking nonsense, Sorbay. Haven’t you got something to say to me on bended knee. Or do you want your son born a bastard?”

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Sowerbutt's Baby

Sowerbutt looked serious. “Polly, you are pregnant. Are you all right, we’d better get you to bed. The doctor – is he any good? We’ll get you the best in Harley Street. One of the top blokes at Guy’s owes me a favour.”

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Sowerbutt's Lady

“Dot told me you had stuck your head in at the warehouse, upset the girls and then disappeared again, Sorbay.  Now you are lazing around in the flat," Polly said.
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Sowerbutt's Warning

“I don’t care what you food people do elsewhere in the Smoke, but tell your guv’nor not to send anyone else down here. Your men will go in The River, women will get their heads shaved. And I’ll personally track down your guv’nor and pull the trigger on what his wife values dearly.”

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Sowerbutt's Shotgun

Panda unbuttoned his leather coat, the woman wincing as she saw his shotgun.

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Sowerbutt's Bag

Pointing to the food inspector’s bag, Panda said: “Two stolen ration cards, probably more in her pocket. A bent officer of the law, trying to get supplies on the side while us lot go without. The magistrate won’t like that.” An angry murmur spread through the queue.

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Sowerbutt's Threat

“Don’t you touch me, you oaf. I’ll have the police on you, I’m an officer of the law,” the food inspector snapped. “Your wife will be getting a summons to appear in court and I’ll lay a charge against you for threatening me.”

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Sowerbutt's Slapping

Tom Wicks’ face was turning pillar-box red. “You witch, you come in my shop, upsetting my wife. I’d knock you out if you were a man.” A woman in the queue shouted: “Give her a slapping, Tom. We don’t like food snoopers round here.”

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Sowerbutt's Steak

“Don’t you tell me what to do, you little pipsqueak,” snapped the woman. “I’m a food inspector and this woman here was going to sell me a quarter of chuck steak without a ration coupon. She’s going up before the magistrate."
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Sowerbutt's Tears

The butcher’s wife stood behind the counter, hands over her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. Angry mutterings could be heard in the queue of housewives which stretched out into High Bob.

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Sowerbutt's Hand

The huge hand slammed down on the bench in Wicks Butcher’s, One-Line towering over the middle-aged woman clad in a grey mac.
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Sowerbutt's List

The curate said: “I have a list of 40 names. But Mr Sorbay says there are many more. After the terrible bombing of South Hallsville, some children ran wild; their parents dead. Terrible times, I wonder whether we will ever know how many poor souls were called to their Maker on that day."
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Sowerbutt's School

“Bless you, my son,” the clergyman said. “We have made a start, organising the children to play regular sport on the Rec. With your books, we can start regular lessons in the church. The dear children deserve a proper education.”

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Sowerbutt's Revolution

"You have much to tell me, Brendan," Churchill growled. "Are we on the verge of revolution? Will the Reds seize the streets of our great city and murder us in our beds?"
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Sowerbutt's Rubble

"Death and destruction raining down on our innocent London families. Houses and offices laid waste. Buildings of great beauty, from the inspired mind of Wren, reduced to heaps of rubble. I will not have it, Brendan." Churchill growled.
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Sowerbutt's Wounds

“Grant me a moment to gaze upon my poor wounded London,” Churchill growled.

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Sowerbutt's Chill

“Sir, it is freezing. You will give yourself a chill; at this juncture Britain cannot afford to have her Prime Minister bed-ridden,” Bracken said.
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Sowerbutt's Bowler

Hawk-Face swept the bowler off his mop of bottle-yellow hair, held it out in silent salute and bowed low as the gravediggers began shovelling the heavy clay into the grave.
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Sowerbutt's Bodyguard

To one side stood a fit-looking man in his forties, flecks of grey adding distinction to his slicked-down black hair. He had once been Sir Oswald Mosley’s bodyguard. 
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Sowerbutt's Dog

The low growl at the back of the Dalmatian’s throat was enough to send shivers up a brave man’s spine.
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Sowerbutt's Orders

"A few rabble-rousers will be at this gathering and we don’t want Reds pouring out and causing trouble. That’s what we’ll be there to do – stop them."
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Sowerbutt's Theatre

Sowerbutt was not used to speaking into the large RCA microphone, his voice echoing and popping. “It’s a pity the Old Man is not here, lads, he always enjoyed an audience.” Laughter swept the theatre with the odd cry of “Mosley, Mosley.”

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Sowerbutt's Youth

As a street boy, Sowerbutt had been offered work as an acrobat, the closest he had come to show business.
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Sowerbutt's Offspring

The man, who would celebrate his 21^st birthday in a couple of months, closely resembled King Victor Emmanuel, who never publicly acknowledged his illegitimate son.
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Sowerbutt's Letter

“We’ve have gone to much trouble to get here to Rhodos,” the colonnello from the 2^nd Blackshirt Division said. “This letter is of the highest importance."
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