Darkest Before Dawn by Katie Flynn Read Free Book Online Page A

every warehouse suffered from petty pilfering and that this was not what worried him. ‘You can’t blame the fellers for taking the odd jar of jam or pickles,’ he had said. ‘It’s when it gets to being a crate of jam or pickles that I have to put my foot down.’
    Harry had quite seen the justice of this; though he had never done so himself, he knew that most of those who dwelt on the canal, and their families, thought it no particular sin to take a bag of potatoes, a couple of swedes or a good, big armful of hay from a farmer’s field. The men snared rabbits for the pot or shot a couple of fat wood pigeons, and if a farmer’s hen laid astray, they would collect the eggs as their children collected blackberries or hazelnuts. The warehousemen under him were the same. For the most part, though, they were careful to take only damaged goods. Harry knew that in a good many cases they damaged the goods themselves, coming to him to show a cracked jar or a dented tin before quietly pocketing it, and he supposed there was no harm in it.
    At this point in his musing, Harry reached the warehouse and banged cheerfully on the door, which was the signal for the night watchman to start packing up. Then Harry produced his keys and let himself in. Immediately, the many and varied smells of the warehouse invaded his nostrils. He sniffed appreciatively; coffee beans, cocoa, the country smell of grain, the soft sweetness of sugar – they all blended into a smell which he was beginning to enjoy because there was no doubt that he really liked the work and knew himself to be very good at it. The most important thing a head warehouseman has to do is to see that every inch of available space is put to good use whilst making sure that those items which are needed on a regular basis are stacked where they can be easily reached.
    Mr Bister knew a thing or two about barges since he owned a fleet of them. He knew how important it was to load the goods they carried correctly and had guessed that Harry, used to the far smaller space available aboard the Mary Jane and her butty boats, would find the stocking of a warehouse both familiar and yet a challenge. He had been right; after only a few weeks in the job, Harry had worked out the best place for everything. He could look at a gap and gauge with considerable accuracy how many crates, boxes or sacks he could wedge into it, and he moved his stock around with complete confidence, knowing that as fast as he moved goods out from the floor on to the delivery vans, more would be coming up from the docks. Harry was neat by nature and he enjoyed the challenge the warehouse represented, though he had made mistakes; everyone did. Once, he had stacked a large quantity of tinned goods against the back wall of the warehouse, only realising after it was walled in by other commodities that the stuff was needed urgently by a wholesaler on the other side of the city. There had been a good deal of swearing and a good deal of laughter as the men worked frantically to get at the tins, but it had taught Harry a lesson. Since then, he always kept his paperwork handy and consulted it before choosing where to place each consignment.
    â€˜Mornin’, Mr Todd, sir.’ Mr Fuller, the night watchman, hefted the old canvas bag which contained his sandwich box and his flask – both now empty – over his shoulder, and shambled across the warehouse, a good-natured grin splitting his craggy, unshaven face. At night time, he had the run of the place and brewed himself many a cup of tea in the little kitchen behind Harry’s office. But his wife made his sandwiches and filled his flask as though he were still employed down on the docks where there had been no facilities for making cups of tea. And no nice comfortable chair in which an old man might snooze peacefully when the night was quiet. He had a fat black mongrel bitch, far too rheumaticky to chase a rat, let alone catch one, but