Queen of Thieves

by Beezy Marsh

I froze.

  ‘Changed your hair?’ the old woman said, her mouth pressing itself into a thin line of disapproval.

  I nodded, mutely, and hurried down the stairs as Ma Harris shuffled off down the hall, before she realized that I wasn’t her lodger.

  As I was heading through the front door, Ma Harris shouted after me: ‘Makes you look like a cheap tart. And don’t forget you still owe me for last week’s rent!’

  Gypsy was a terrible spendthrift. Most of her wages went on tat from Berwick Street market or on ludicrous high heels that were either too big, or too small, so it was no wonder she was keeping Ma Harris short.

  ‘I had to ’ave ’em!’ she’d cry, cramming her feet to a teeny pair of court shoes, like some desperate Cinderella, or stuffing tissue paper down the ends of a pair of size nines, to stop them slipping off altogether. It was a wonder that Gypsy ever made it on the stage without falling flat on her face.

  Outside on the street corner, a paper boy was flapping his arms about to keep warm and yelling the headlines about the Royal Family arriving in South Africa. It was all well and good for them escaping the big freeze. Meanwhile, the rest of the country had to put up with power-cuts three days a week and the worst winter in living memory which was dragging on with no sign of a thaw.

  Soho was sugar-dredged in snow but even that couldn’t disguise the grime as I made my way to Wardour Street, past firemen blasting the frozen tram points with a flame thrower to shift the ice, as if they were battling the enemy.

  Every doorway was dotted with piles of fag butts and old newspapers and shop windows were either black with filth, or bomb damaged and boarded up.

  Pushing open the door, the grimy staircase lay ahead of me. Down in The Windsor, the pianist was already tickling the ivories. The lights in the club were dimmed to lure the customers into forgetting the time and staying longer and the whole place was cocooned in semi-darkness, which left me half-blind for a moment.

  But I recognized the tune and started to sing along: ‘I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places, that this heart of mine embraces…’

  I’d always loved the Billy Holiday song; Mum had sung it to me during the blackout as we huddled in the tube station, when I was scared witless as bombs dropped overhead.

  ‘All day and through, in that small café, the park across the way…’

  But as I got to the next line, about the children’s carousel, the words stuck in my throat and my head started to spin. My life flashed before me. There we were, me and Jimmy, strolling arm in arm around the market in Waterloo, making plans for the future and then me, full of rage, throwing his engagement ring back at him. I saw Joseph wrapped up in his pram, wearing the clothes I’d made him to keep warm, being pushed around the park by his adopted mother. A pang of longing shot through me. My knees went and my legs almost buckled.

  A figure stepped out of the shadows and steadied me.

  It was Billy Sullivan.

  ‘Don’t just stand there gawping, Lou,’ he barked at the barman, as he held me in his steady grip. ‘Get her a brandy.’

  Billy steered me gently by the elbow to a seat at his table, the one nearest the chrome topped bar, which he used as his office during the day. His accounts ledgers were neatly stacked and Billy was always noting down the money that a steady stream of his Chaps brought to him.

  I accepted the drink, gratefully, craning my neck to have a peek at the names in that book of his but Billy swiftly shut the ledger, away from my prying eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sullivan,’ I blurted, ‘I didn’t mean to make a fuss...’ The brandy was warming me from the inside and the room had stopped spinning.

  Billy pulled up a chair, which screeched on the stone floor, and sat down opposite.

  ‘You upset about something, Nell?’ he said, his coal-black eyes searching my face. ‘Because I like to look after my staff and I’m here to help if you have any troubles…’

  ‘No,’ I lied, banishing the image of baby Joseph from my mind. ‘Not at all, I just forgot to have breakfast that’s all.’

  ‘Well, in that case, Lou will get you some eggs, won’t you, Lou?’ he said. ‘Can’t have my songbird starving, not in this weather.’

  The barman nodded and shot me a look that was nothing like pleasure at the prospect of having to fix me something to eat, because the cook hadn’t managed to make his way in yet.

  Billy pulled a silver cigarette case from the breast pocket of his immaculately pressed suit and flipped it open.

  ‘Smoke?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I said. Perhaps it was nerves, but my throat had started to feel dry and the last thing I needed was ciggie smoke when I had to sing for my supper.

  Billy settled back in his chair and eyed me, thoughtfully. His hair was greying at the temples and slicked back. Everything about him was perfectly polished; shoes, nails, belt buckle and even his white teeth which he flashed when he smiled. He was thick set, but his face was handsome, a bit like Humphrey Bogart, and there was something intense in his eyes that made me feel like he was undressing me. To my surprise, I quite enjoyed that thought.

  ‘So, tell me a bit about yourself then, Nell. What brings you up to town to work at The Windsor?’

  I flinched for a second at the question and a sip of brandy slipped down the back of my throat, setting off a coughing fit.

  He leaned forward to pat me on the back and I caught a whiff of his aftershave. It smelled delicious, like lemons.

  When I had recovered, I forced a smile and said, as casually as I could: ‘My family are from the East End, but we all got bombed out during the war. I had a job in the Tate and Lyle factory for a while, but I left when I fell out with my dad, which is why I came to Soho. Things got bad indoors, I couldn’t go home.’

  It wasn’t too much of a lie. I began to relax.

  ‘Know the Tate and Lyle factory well,’ said Billy, lighting up his smoke. ‘In fact, I remember old Banksy the foreman. Used to knock me off a few bags of sugar when we were running short. I like a sugar in my tea. You must know him?’

  I swallowed hard and had to remind myself to keep breathing.

  ‘Yes,’ I squeaked, taking another teensy sip of brandy to give me the Dutch courage needed to continue with my bare-faced lies, ‘Old Banksy was a real character. He loved a joke. Got me into trouble for laughing too much on the shop floor more than once.’ Now my heart was thumping ten to the dozen but there was something else, a lightness in my stomach, which was fluttering every time he looked at me. I clasped my hands together in my lap, willing it to stop.

  Billy seemed satisfied with my answers and he chuckled to himself and stood up.

  ‘Well, you take care, Nell. I’ve got a bit of business to attend to, but I look forward to seeing you perform the song later. Sounded nice.’

  He picked up his ledger, tucked it under his arm, and sauntered out of the club.

  Lou slammed a plate of scrambled eggs down in front of me.

  ‘Breakfast is served. Don’t get used to it, Lady Muck,’ he grumbled. ‘And you can do your own bleeding washing up.’

  Flirting with the punters wasn’t something I was very good at because my heart wasn’t in it. Not like Gypsy and Alma, the lead dancer.

  Those two would square up to each other like a pair of alleycats the moment someone wearing a half-decent suit set foot in the building because it meant he had money to spend. The fella had probably pawned his gran to buy his threads but no matter, in The Windsor, blokes liked to have cash to splash. Wedding rings were slipped off at the door and her indoors, with her headaches and housecoat, was out of sight and out of mind.

  I had no illusions about what the blokes were after. I knew where it led, and I wasn’t going to go there under any circumstances.

  ‘Oh, be nice, Blondie, come and sit on my knee, I’m lonely,’ said a horrible greasy-looking type with a beer gut spilling over his trousers. He reached out to paw at me as I tried to get past to go backstage.

  The l
ast thing I wanted was to make a fuss, because it would upset Lou the barman if I wasn’t nice to the punters and he was watching with a gimlet eye. But the thought of cosying up to this lump of lard was gut wrenching.

  ‘I ain’t feeling too clever,’ I said, apologetically.

  ‘Think I’m coming down with something, I wouldn’t get too close if I were you.’

  But the man made a grab and pulled me to sit, planting a wet kiss on my cheek and pinching my bum. He smelled vile, like piss and boiled cabbage. I fought the urge to retch.

  So’s not to offend him, I started to laugh, nervously, and I was trying to wriggle myself free as his hands found their way up my skirt.

  ‘Now, now! Don’t touch the goods…’

  But his fingers were dangerously near the top of my stockings now, so I clamped my legs together in desperation.

  ‘Let’s order you a drink? What would you like?’ I said, trying to fight him off. It was like wrestling a flaming octopus.

  Glancing over to the bar, Lou was standing watching with a look of amusement on his face. He wasn’t going to stop this punter feeling me up, the bastard, and all because he’d been forced to cook breakfast.

  Just then, a voice came from over my shoulder: ‘I think the lady has had enough, don’t you?’

  A tall man, smartly dressed and smooth shaven, with a broad jaw and thick, wavy hair, strode across the club towards us. The big fella seemed to shrink visibly at the sight of him, relaxing his grip. I managed to stand up, smoothing down my skirt, which had found its way somewhere up close to my armpits. But not before the fat guy had muttered: ‘Prick tease’, under his breath.

  ‘What did you say?’ said the man, putting his hands on the fat bloke’s lapels and pulling him to his feet. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

  ‘Nothing… didn’t say anything,’ said the fat lump.

  ‘I think you should apologise to the lady because this is a respectable establishment and not a knocking shop,’ said this knight in shining armour. I glanced around to see where he’d parked his horse.

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ replied the bloke, spittle forming at the corners of his rubbery bottom lip. ‘Everyone knows Billy doesn’t mind if we get a bit friendly with the girls from time to time.’

  The other man pulled something out of his pocket and flicked it open. The flash of a steel blade glinted in the light as it was held to the big lump’s cheek.

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that and it’s Mr Sullivan to you, you lousy piece of shit,’ said the man, whose suit was as sharp as his razor.

  ‘No, offence, honest,’ said the fat bloke, putting his hands up, ‘I was only fooling around. Sorry, love.’ He pulled on his grubby overcoat, quick as lightning, and headed for the door.

  My rescuer turned to face me, greeting me with the most startling pair of deep-set blue eyes I’d ever seen: ‘Are you alright?’

  For a moment, I was speechless.

  Out of nowhere, Lou loomed large, barging into the conversation.

  ‘She’s alright but the silly moo just lost us money for drinks by being so prim and bloody proper, that’s what! I keep telling the girls, Albert, but they won’t listen. Maybe you should have a word with Mr Sullivan about it?’

  ‘Oh, belt up, Lou!’ said the fella. ‘You can’t have oiks like that feeling up the girls. It ain’t right. Cheapens the place. Now why don’t you sod off and polish some glasses?’

  Lou scowled and turned on his heel back to the bar.

  The man smiled and out of nowhere, Gypsy appeared by my side, dressed in a silk dressing gown, gazing coyly from under her curls.

  ‘I’m Albert, Albert Rossi,’ he said leaning over to shake me by the hand. He was, quite simply, the best-looking bloke I had ever seen. Gypsy offered her hand as well, just for good measure, and he took his time giving it back to her.

  ‘I’m a friend and business partner of Billy Sullivan’s, and you two must be his top acts. He’s told me so much about you both.

  ‘Perhaps we could all get together for a drink one evening after work?’

  Gypsy almost swooned at that.

  ‘We’d love to!’ she gushed before I could get a word in edgeways.

  For some reason, I couldn’t get Billy Sullivan off my mind all afternoon even though I had to put up with Gypsy yacking on about the delectable Albert Rossi.

  Gypsy had filled me in on everything she knew about him, at least ten times.

  ‘Ooh, the Italian dreamboat,’ she swooned, as we got ready backstage. ‘He’s got a whole fleet of cars that he runs for Billy, from Tottenham Court Road. There’s a petrol coupon racket going up there, mark my words, but Albert could drive me home any time of the day… or night.’

  She shrieked with laughter and Alma and the other dancers shot her a dirty look.

  ‘He’s a proper charmer but he’s never tried it on with anyone here,’ said Gypsy, doing up her suspender belt. ‘And more’s the pity. Some girls practically throw themselves at Albert, but that just makes them look like tarts ’cos he ain’t interested.

  ‘But, of course, it’s different when he’s the one inviting us out for a drink,’ she said, with a note of triumph in her voice.

  Gypsy looked pointedly at Alma, who flicked the V sign back at her.

  ‘Albert is only interested in the quality,’ drawled Alma, ‘so don’t get your hopes up, Gypsy. He’s way out of your league. Someone told me he had his heart broken by a proper toff.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Alma sneered in my direction. ‘We saw you sucking up to the boss. Don’t think for a minute that Mr Sullivan would give you a second glance!’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about him in that way at all,’ I shot back, turning away and applying some lipstick so she wouldn’t see the blush that was forming on my cheeks. ‘He just wanted to know a bit more about me.’

  Alma laughed like a drain and gathered into a little huddle with the other dancers, who started whispering loudly about ‘tarts’.

  Gypsy lowered her voice: ‘Do you think Billy Sullivan fancies you, Nell? I reckon you might have hit the jackpot!’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I replied, blotting the lippy carefully with a handkerchief, to give it staying power. ‘He was just concerned because I didn’t feel too well, that’s all.’

  But the very mention of his name made me feel a little flutter of excitement again, as if a candle had been lit and was glowing in the darkness. I tried to snuff it out because it was wrong. Billy was a dangerous man and someone I was supposed to be spying on. But it glowed on, regardless.

  The club was packed to the rafters that evening and I scoured the audience for any sign of Billy, while Gypsy ran around picking up her feathered boas that she’d flung off at the end of her act.

  But he was nowhere to be seen and, as a I stepped up to the microphone and began to sing, I felt a little stab of disappointment at that. The punters were in high spirits, calling for an encore and so I decided to try my new song.

  I’d only sung a few notes when a crowd of fellas tumbled through the doors, with Billy Sullivan at their centre, and Albert Rossi by his side. They were in high spirits, laughing and joking, and a few of them were nursing cuts and bruises and reliving whatever fight it was they’d just been involved in.

  My voice faltered over the din. It was like having to sing in assembly in front of the whole school with kids chattering away. Then Billy’s eyes locked on to mine and I found I wasn’t scared any more.

  He signalled for hush and the fellas around him fell silent and turned to look at me.

  There were whoops and cheers at my rendition of I’ll Be Seeing You and Billy Sullivan pushed his way through the crowded club to the edge of the stage. He held out his hand to help me down, clapping along with everyone. I felt proud that he was making a point of coming to greet me, as if I was the star of his club.

  I smelled the whisky on his breath as he whispered: ‘I’d like a word in private.’

  Before I knew what
was happening, his hand was on the small of my back, guiding me through the side door and up the corridor, past the changing room, to a back room which was out of bounds to the girls, Lou had made that much clear.

  He pulled a key from his trouser pocket and unlocked it, holding the door open and ushering me inside. The room stank of stale smoke and was rather bare. There was a faded carpet and some leather easy chairs along one wall. The blind at the window was pulled firmly shut. I realised this must be where Billy had his business meetings, the most secret ones, with his gang.

  There was a leather-topped desk with a lamp, a letter opener, ink and a fountain pen on the blotting pad and a stack of accounts ledgers in a neat pile. A faded photograph of a couple of kids in old-fashioned clothes stood in a silver frame and beside that was an expensive looking cigar box and a cut class decanter filled with amber liquid on a tray with crystal glasses. Squatting in the corner was a large safe and beside that, a metal filing cabinet.

  He pointed to a rickety wooden chair in front of the desk and I sat down.

  ‘Feeling better?’ he said, flipping open the cigar box and selecting one for himself. He rolled it back and forth between his fingers and then struck a match from a packet in his pocket. It flared for a moment and he lit the cigar.

  ‘Yes, I’m back to my old self,’ I said, shifting nervously in the chair. What on earth was I even doing here?

  ‘Quite a performance you put on tonight,’ he said, drily.

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied, biting my lip. ‘Very kind of you to say so.’

  I looked more closely at the old photograph, desperate to find something to say to break the awkward silence. The boy was Billy Sullivan in his younger years, dressed in a flat cap, white collarless shirt and breeches; glaring insolently at the camera with those unmistakably devilish dark eyes. The girl was gazing up at him adoringly, her long, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders.

  It was strange to think of Billy belonging to a family. He was the kind of bloke who looked as if he’d been born a gangster but here was a girl, looking up at him as if he was her handsome prince.

  ‘Is that your sister?’ I said, my mouth running away with me.