The Luggage Lifter

By Terence Connor

Meet Harold, a young man who occupies a room in a bleak tenement in the edgy Blitz-damaged East End. Harold’s good humour and air of optimism belie the unfortunate circumstances which blighted his childhood, left him orphaned and shaped his view of the world. An intelligent, resourceful and amiable character, operating around the London hotels and railway stations, he turns luggage lifting into an art form. When he discovers a stash of letters in a leather steamer, an act of kindness sets off a chain of events which gathers its own momentum and leads to romance. But the escalation in his criminal activities, together with the finding of a large haul of used banknotes can only spell trouble. The attention of the police and the menace of the Moretti brothers, who claim the money, coincide, and arrest seems a safer outcome for Harold. He survives a prison term but soon learns that shaking off his unresolved past is more difficult, especially when trying to do the right thing leads to complications in his love life. Just when a sense of well-being beckons, matters spiral out of control and push Harold to the brink…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781528965644

Terence Connor

Terence Connor was born in Whitechapel and has always lived in London, apart from attendance at universities and periods working abroad in Spain (film extra English classes in a language school, and private tutor to a bullfighter) and in Ecuador (volunteer in a shanty town). He has studied at the universities of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Kent and LSE, worked in social services departments and in a voluntary child care and adoption agency. More recently, he has obtained a masters in creative writing with distinction from Exeter University. This is his first novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

Harold, the young man who occupied a single room on the first floor balcony, at the Cable Street end of the tenement, was still something of a mystery, three months after taking up residence. Even those tenants, whose rooms opened onto the same dim passageway, could claim no more than to be on nodding terms. No one had managed to engage him in conversation.

Some, like the garrulous Mrs Maynard, took this as a personal affront. Others were more circumspect, attributing his unsociability to a recent discharge from mental hospital or release from prison. One or two simply categorised him as a weirdo, best left alone. What they didn’t know, and what he had no intention of sharing with them, was the fact that he was born and bred in the locality. A relative had pulled a few strings to get him the accommodation. Even sub-standard living quarters were at a premium at that time. Doubtless his family background would become public knowledge before too long but, for the time being, he got a kick out of an element of mystery.

Mrs Maynard, never more than a few feet from her net curtains had observed him on a number of occasions leaving the balcony with a suitcase. His face was certainly familiar and it frustrated her not to know more. He was a dapper young man who always wore a suit and it was always the same one. It was charcoal grey, shiny from wear when the light caught it at certain angles. The cuffs were a little frayed. It was bought second-hand and was such a good cut that the gradual wear and tear was unnoticeable unless you were close up. And it was a suit. Katherine Buildings’ menfolk seldom wore suits and then only for Sunday best, weddings and funerals. Leaning over the balcony, Mrs Maynard shared her observations with Mrs Miller below:

He must be a door-to-door salesman.

What’s he selling?

She shrugged and smiled.

No idea, but I’ll buy some! she said with a guffaw, despite the fact that just minutes before she had been recounting tales of seeing him come out of a couple of the dives along Cable Street, frequented by the West Indians.

"Not that I wish to cast aspersions (a word she had recently added to her vocabulary, without knowing its meaning) but the kind of bars and coffee shops we would never set foot in."

Mrs Miller had then used the opportunity to back this up with a string of disparaging, racist remarks.

That morning, Harold Murphy – at least that was the name on his rent book – was carrying no suitcase. He walked briskly along East Smithfield and across Tower Bridge, where the fresh breeze over the river wafted a faint aroma of cinnamon from the docks. At the far end of the bridge, he turned right into Tooley Street, where a stream of cabs was moving slowly towards London Bridge Station, like a procession of black beetles. Harold had decided to start work there today. A consummate professional, he viewed what others would define as criminal activity, simply as a job and he took pride in its execution.

It was a job with flexible hours and was ideally suited to a self-starter like himself, who loved his independence. There was plenty of scope for initiative and, in addition to the ability to think and understand quickly, success depended on an adequate level of fitness.

Not only was London Bridge within reasonable walking distance of the tenement, it was also a short hop on the train to Waterloo and Charing Cross. So, if London Bridge was slack, there were two other termini with potentially rich pickings. What’s more, he could easily access Blackfriars and Cannon Street from the same starting point. There were always porters on the platforms of the larger stations, ready and waiting to earn a tip by carrying luggage for passengers on trolleys or in special trucks. The constant picking up and putting down, made the suitcases and bags especially vulnerable.

Victoria was comfortably within reach and this gave him access to the south coast seaside resorts. He loved nothing more than a day trip to Brighton and a stroll along the promenade. Liverpool Street station, another main London terminus, was also not far away in Bishopsgate and this opened up possibilities in the east of England. Harold particularly liked to mix business with pleasure and occasional day trips to Clacton or Southend provided this outlet. He had always felt a deep affection for the seaside.

Harold considered the skills and mind set for his job to be not dissimilar to those required for the card game of patience. You had to take the long view, not be tempted by short-term gains. You had to be prepared to sit it out until the right card came along. The clues were always in the cards. They could be harbingers of good fortune or signs that misfortune was just around the corner. An absence of wins after a number of tries, perhaps spelled the need for caution. A win at the first attempt might influence how you felt about the big decisions. It was the same with luggage. A range of suitcases deposited on a station concourse or in a hotel foyer always presented a challenge. Handling suitcases was a similar exercise to manipulating different suits of cards. In both instances, it was essential first to sort them in the mind and take a view as to the relative value of each.

These thoughts were coursing his brain, like greyhounds chasing a hare, as he walked through to the station concourse. He bought a newspaper and sat down on a wooden bench opposite the aptly named Left Luggage Office. There was a notice on the counter, advising the public that this was not where you attended for lost luggage. That was entirely different and a matter for the Lost Property Office. Although, he thought to himself, with a wry smile, this was a false distinction in some cases. Or should he say with some cases? He grinned at this play on words and a passer-by looked askance at him.

He also reflected on the distinction between left luggage and luggage which had been temporarily abandoned. Harold had an acute sense of abandonment.

Don’t you worry, the nuns had told him as he stood there, tears running from his big brown eyes into dimples like craters, we’ll take care of you ’til your mum comes back.

But…fuck me, she hadn’t returned. What he didn’t discover, until some years later, was that his mother had died in childbirth and the baby, his little brother, had joined her, in a pauper’s grave, not long after. Death was a frequent visitor to that area, particularly since bombing had become almost a commonplace of public life in Whitechapel. One of his aunts had been killed when their tenement flat, in nearby Peabody Buildings, had taken a direct hit during the Blitz. Two of his baby cousins had also perished on that wretched September day in 1940. Living so close to the docks was a permanent hazard in wartime. The rest of his aunts were too poor to take him but decided, anyway, that he would be safer and better fed in the orphanage. It was his Aunt Mary, whom he now called ‘Mum’, who had stepped in to reclaim him from the nuns.

Harold peered over his newspaper to survey the field of play for one last time before making his move. He had been keeping an eye on the man in a trilby, sitting opposite, near the newspaper kiosk. Was he waiting for some mug punter to pick up the abandoned case so that he could pounce on him with a pretence of civility? Will you accompany me to the station, sir?

But no, the man got up and walked towards the platforms, tipping his hat at Harold as he passed him. This was a friendly gesture, which Harold chose not to notice. It didn’t pay to make eye contact in this work. It was all about surveillance and patience.

The plain brown cardboard suitcase was not in the least conspicuous and this was doubtless the reason for its owner’s offhand disregard for its safety. Harold moved quickly, but not too quickly so as to attract attention. In one deft, continuous action, he stooped, picked up the case and carried on walking. Picking up a case "on the run" was not the sort of thing to attempt unless you had a lot of confidence in your grip, and Harold did. His grip, like his handshake, was always firm. The trick was to keep moving purposefully, to a different part of the station. He left nothing to chance. When Harold had first opted to become a luggage lifter, he had spent time studying, in detail, the layout of all the major London stations. All this reconnaissance had paid off. A couple of close calls had tested his ability to negotiate the concourse in haste and he had not been found wanting. He knew the precise location of all the station facilities, the exact distance to the exits from any principal vantage point and the timetable for the main arrivals and departures. He also had a working knowledge of Manchester Piccadilly and Liverpool Lime Street stations, just in case he needed to get out of the heat for a while or simply fancied a change of scene.

His plan, on this occasion, was to make for the Gents and lock himself into a cubicle. He could then assess the value of his catch, in a leisurely fashion. He imagined it was a bit like fishing because, once you had pulled on the rod, you didn’t know what was on the other end, beneath the water. In some respects, the value of the contents was secondary anyway. Like sex, for him, the thrill was in the anticipation. Once the act was complete (the lifting, not the sex that is!) the receptacle – in this instance a nondescript container – could be discarded. Most people care about containers much less than the things they contain. It could be discarded without a second thought. Suitcases or people, you had to learn to move on.

Harold sat down on the lavatory, a strange sensation when you still had your trousers on. How regular habits indoctrinated the mind, he thought, as he tried to flip the hasps. They were locked. This wasn’t a problem for Harold, who was an expert at picking locks. This lock was standard. He took a small, orange Bakelite screwdriver from his pocket, placed it in the lock at a slight angle and twisted. Sometimes it was necessary to prise the seal around the edge of the barrel. Very occasionally, he had to resort to a small knife he carried, but he always felt a little troubled if he had to damage the suitcase. Being abandoned, he reflected, was no fault of the suitcase. Besides which, on this occasion, he intended to use it as a decoy for his next heist, when he moved on to Waterloo.

Because he hadn’t been present when the case was left, he had no idea of its provenance. Sometimes, the design features or colour of a bag or holdall, were clues as to the gender of the owner, although he had been surprised on more than one occasion. When a suitcase looked like it might be common to both male and female genders, there was always an added frisson because a surprise was in the offing.

As soon as he lifted the lid, there was no doubt that, unless the owner was a cross-dresser, a woman would soon be reporting to the Lost Property Office. Several items of lingerie were strewn across the top of neatly folded camisoles and blouses. A bottle of Chanel was tucked into one of the corners. He pushed aside all these distractions. There, nestling at the bottom of the case, was the piece which told him his morning’s work would not be in vain. A pearl rope lit up his eyes. It was like offering a bag of white onion skin marbles to a schoolboy. He also knew, from experience, that a matching set of earrings would be close by. He made a cursory check of his haul and then pocketed them. Harold closed the case, flushed the lavatory and made his way across the tiled floor, stopping only to wash his hands under the brass tap. He soaped and rinsed them three times.

Attention to detail was important to Harold. He glanced at his watch and noted, with some satisfaction, that the whole manoeuvre had taken no longer than would be expected from a bona fide cubicle visit. He walked confidently across the concourse to Platform 6 and waited for the next train to Waterloo. He was, of course, familiar with the timetable. No need to waste time or draw attention to himself by enquiring of station staff. Similarly, any approach from a station porter was met with a firm but friendly rebuff. There were always porters on hand, ready to earn a tip, as soon as they heard the slammed doors of an arriving train.

His short journey was uneventful, apart from one tedious exchange with a plump, middle-aged woman in a dog-tooth suit.

Off on your holidays? she enquired with a smile, as he lifted the case onto the luggage rack.

No, I’m checking into StThomas’ Hospital, unfortunately, he replied.

The woman blushed. She was nonplussed and embarrassed. Oh, I am sorry, she stammered and looked out of the window. Harold did likewise, as the train passed over the viaduct. The green shuttered warehouses, resplendent with mounds of different coloured fruits and vegetables were visible in the Borough Market below.

A sudden braking caused the carriage to move jerkily and then a series of stops and starts jolted the passengers, before the train juddered to a halt. A delay on the line meant that the train remained stationary for several minutes. Harold saw, from her reflection in the window, that his fellow traveller was uneasy. She moved backwards and forwards in her seat and kept adjusting her hat. Harold, for his part, enjoyed the unscheduled stop because it afforded him a view from above the market, seldom experienced.

Business was now effectively over. Market salesmen, who had called into the Globe first thing for a warming whiskey, chatted with other early risers in their caramel-coloured overalls, blowing on frozen fingers and stamping their feet against the cold. Cleaners, their heads scarfed against the wind, hurried along narrow paths on the way back from daybreak jobs in city offices. Barrows creaked their way along the shiny, uneven cobblestones. Whistling porters loaded the greengrocers’ vans, whose engines were purring in readiness. A noisy acceleration startled the brewery dray-horse, nose buried in a bag of hay while its cargo of barrels was dropped unceremoniously from pavement to cellar.

As the train chugged into Waterloo and Harold took the case down from the rack, Mrs Dog-tooth mumbled a half-hearted "Good luck."

A professional doesn’t depend on luck, he thought, as he crossed the main concourse. The station was crowded, which was always a good sign. He positioned himself under the large clock. The brown suitcase was at his feet, as he waited for the right moment. This might take a while, but he was in no hurry. He didn’t look conspicuous. People on stations were forever standing about, killing time, waiting for trains or friends or business appointments. Harold was seeking a case similar in style, colour and size to the one he had borrowed. He knew that the one he was looking for would be left while its owner went to buy a newspaper, visit the lavatory or queue at the ticket office.

His face twitched, indignant at such acts of abandonment. He tried to control his facial tic. Suitcases didn’t know whether being left, signalled temporary or permanent loss. Similarly, the nuns had given no indication that they had understood his confusion.

He’s still crying, Sister Veronica.

Has he been changed?

Yes, and he’s been fed and wrapped up warm.

Let him cry it out, then. He won’t even remember she’s missing.

His face started twitching again at the memory of his deceased mother and he shuffled his feet. A failed fostering had followed shortly after this. He had often reflected on this term failed fostering which appeared sometimes in his old school reports. But who had failed? He had looked the word up in the dictionary once and wrote down the definition: to not succeed in what you are trying to achieve or are expected to do. What was he trying to achieve at that tender age and did he even know what the expectations were? He shook his head in exasperation.

Outside the station buffet, he saw a businessman in a chalk stripe suit put down a similar suitcase. These utility suitcases were everywhere. Harold watched as the man entered the buffet and was served a pot of tea and an Eccles cake. Chalk stripe moved to the back of the buffet and sat at an empty table. Harold walked over to the buffet and put his case down next to Chalk Stripe’s. He bought himself a snack and walked out again, pausing only to glance at the man, who was engrossed in his newspaper.

He picked up Chalk Stripe’s case, safe in the knowledge that, should there be a confrontation, he had the perfect retort: Terribly sorry, old boy. Picked up the wrong one.

He knew this wouldn’t happen. The more likely scenario would see Chalk Stripe pick up the doppelganger and fail to realise there was a problem until he was handling the lingerie in front of his wife and looking totally bewildered!

Harold travelled on to Charing Cross, where he handed his ticket to the ticket collector. There should be no surprise that Harold had purchased a ticket. He viewed this as a legitimate business expense. No point in drawing attention to himself with a minor act of dishonesty. Sprats and mackerels came to mind. He left the station straight-away and headed for the hotel, which was immediately next door. He knew there was nothing unusual about a man walking into a hotel with a suitcase and leaving without it. Harold was familiar with the geography of