Sowerbutt's Dress

Spaghetti squeezed Annie’s hand. “The father of one of Cocker’s mates works for Cortauld’s over in Braintree. They are making silk for RAF parachutes. He's in stores/dispatch. Anyway, their tallying wasn’t up to scratch and he had a spare bolt of silk. I’ve got it stashed in our larder near Queen’s Theatre. Whenever you want, we’ll cut off what you need for your wedding dress."
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Sowerbutt's Control

Moments earlier the room at the Boyd Institute in Canning Town had been bedlam. Forty or so boys shouting, pushing and fighting; a couple of dozen girls giggling, dancing and shouting. Within seconds of Sowerbutt and Spaghetti walking in, the children had taken their seats.
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Sowerbutt's Ruse

Churchill growled. “Your ruses are paying off, Brendan. After your conference at Luton Hoo, my golden geese at Bletchley tell me that Jerry troops are on the move from France to Romania."
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Sowerbutt's Date

Brendan Bracken said: "The plot-line for the notional coup will also inform Uncle Joe of the date for Jerry’s invasion, that we have heard about, hopefully provoking a pre-emptive strike. The sooner those two get to grips, the better.”

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Sowerbutt's Detention

“Who will run your coup for you?” Churchill growled. “Jerry is aware, sir, that our detention programme was not thorough. A task for our clandestine broadcasts will be to add to the names of Blackshirts running free that Hamburg knows about. One or two letters may be sent to their Legation in Dublin as well."

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Sowerbutt's Coup

“Pray share your dastardly plans, Brendan,” Churchill growled. Bracken peered through his pebble glasses. “A Blackshirt coup, Prime Minister. You in the Tower, the Empire handed over to Jerry on a plate, the Wehrmacht paddling across the Channel unmolested.”

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Sowerbutt's Cupboard

The portly man, dressed in a red velvet siren suit, stomped the Cabinet Room, a corona between his fingers.  “Money, dear boy, money,” he exclaimed. “We need the riches of Croesus to win this war. Gold or greenbacks, not bullets.  We suffer from Old Mother Hubbard’s misfortune, our cupboard is bare.”

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Sowerbutt's Letter

“Yes, signor, I have the letter, sealed with wax and stamped with the royal cipher of the English king himself.” “You have done well. His Majesty will be pleased when he hears of your success. On receipt of the letter, I have been instructed to deposit one hundred thousand lire in your bank account."

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Sowerbutt's Tailor

The dapper little man threw his hands up. “You fancied a coffee. I have two apprentices to chase, orders to do, cloth to buy and deliveries to make and you fancied a coffee. Is my shop a café? Do you see a sign outside, saying Shakes snack bar?” Sowerbutt laughed; he always enjoyed his visits to the tailor’s shop.

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Sowerbutt's Dance

The ex-docker’s eyes narrowed as he pulled a knife from his jacket. “I’ll have you, you dirty bastard. No man paws me. I’ll gut you here and now on the floor and dance on your grave.”

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Sowerbutt's Rifle

The barrel of the Gewehr 98 rifle pointed directly at Sowerbutt as he slowly peered round the door of the Thurrock cottage, the face of Lee Gerard smiling through the sights. “I heard you, Mr Sorbay."
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Sowerbutt's Friend

“Sorbay,” Churchill said, sipping his Hine. “Splendid fellow, always gets things done. We need a clean sweep through Brigadier Harker’s MI5 of madness and mayhem. Is Sorbay our man?”

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Sowerbutt's Bath

In the midst of the steaming water in the cast-iron bathtub, which had accommodated many famous bodies, a bright pink whale was splashing around; a couple of wooden boats that Churchill had treasured since  childhood bobbing up and down between the icebergs of soapsuds. A reminder about the five inches of bathwater rule had gone unheeded.

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Sowerbutt's News

Brendan Bracken said: “By letter or word of mouth, the news should be with that Jerry scoundrel, Eduard Hempel, in Dublin in a day or two. The censors have been primed to allow any letters through. You’ve briefed Sorbay on the story to put round the pubs in the Irish Quarter?”

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Sowerbutt's Friend

“Always in trouble, Sorbay,” Brendan Bracken smiled. “Facing down mad Poles, finding bombs, saving the Tower. Whatever next?”
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Sowerbutt's Shooting

The two Polish soldiers spun around, their Lee-Enfields pointing directly at Sowerbutt. “Who are you, what do you want?” snapped Lance Sergeant Swirski. “Clear off before we shoot you.”

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Sowerbutt's Assassination

Strapping on his shoulder holster, Sowerbutt said: “Two of them means an assassination, not enough for an attack or a kidnap. Wonder who is there at Luton Hoo?"
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Sowerbutt's Bullet

Sowerbutt remembered the time when he knew he was in the sights of a Republican Mauser rifle just outside Madrid. Everything around him went into sharp focus. His lightning-quick reactions saved his life; the bullet missing his head by inches.
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Sowerbutt"s Art Gallery

“We could open an art gallery, Jo-Jo,” Angel grinned. “Charge an admission fee, something off for bomb victims.” Jo-Jo said: “That would be an eye-opener. Most of these paintings don’t exist. Disappeared at some stage in their illustrious careers and ended up in the clutches of private collectors. That one, Crucifixion with Mary, St. John, Magdalen, was supposed to have been destroyed a couple of hundred years ago but was in the hands of some blue-blood who Mr Sorbay knows."

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Sowerbutt's Painting

“Careful, lads, slowly does it,” Jo-Jo said as the men lifted the narrow wooden crate off the back of the army lorry onto a trolley. “We’ll do them one at a time.” He looked at the label on the box and checked his manifest. “That will be the Rubens. Worth a few bob.”

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Sowerbutt's Scoop

Brendan Bracken glanced at the newspaper. “Hitler was a Red,” thundered the headline with the rest of the front page devoted to the story and a photograph of the letter from Hitler to Rosa Luxemburg, dated January 2 1919, applying to join the new German Communist Party.
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Sowerbutt's Promotion

Turning to the colonel, the squat man muttered in Russian. The woman bowed and said to General Williams: “Comrade Stalin picks your man as a born soldier, sir. He says he is high calibre and should be a sergeant. He would be an officer in our glorious Red Army.”

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Sowerbutt's Salute

A parade-ground voice boomed: “Present arms.” The butts of the Lee-Enfields smacked onto the driveway gravel as one.
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Sowerbutt's Belt

It was the work of seconds for Vershinin to strangle the 20-year-old; his belt looped around the soldier’s neck, the other hand clamped across his mouth.
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Sowerbutt's Nemesis

Vershinin, dressed in black with mud smeared across his hands and face, peered through the metal gate; his eyes searching the allotments for movement in the dark. Silence. 
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