by Beezy Marsh
I felt like a kid in a sweet shop, as I touched sumptuous satin ribbons and pleated, heavy silks. These were the dresses that the women in Derry and Tom’s jewellery department wore to go to their fine dinners when they wanted to look their most elegant. And now I was getting a chance to step into their world and into their shoes. It was a notch up from anything I’d seen at Alice’s place, in Queen’s Buildings. It made what The Forty Thieves hoisted look like they’d fallen off the back of the rag and bone man’s cart.
I unbuttoned my cardi and took off my skirt and blouse, folding them neatly on his leather-topped desk. As I stood there in my underwear, I couldn’t help noticing his accounts ledger was open, so I took a peek, leafing through row upon row of neat, copperplate writing; names of pubs and clubs and amounts of money received for ‘protection’ services rendered by Billy Sullivan, Esq.
But something stood out like a sore thumb. Among the list of names and meticulous notes were payments to cozzers – Sgt this, and Constable that, and at the head of it all was a Ch. Insp., which I knew stood for the top brass. Billy Sullivan had half of the police force in London straightened and on his books by the looks of it. He was so powerful, there would be no stopping him.
I felt a creeping sense of dread that I’d seen something I shouldn’t have done.
Out of nowhere, there was a rap at the door which made me jump out of my skin and then, to my relief, Gypsy appeared.
Her mouth fell open at the sight of all the beautiful flowers and clothes.
‘Oh my Gawd, Nell! Look at this lot! I think I have died and gone to heaven!’
She was talking ten to the dozen as she rifled through the rail: ‘Mr Sullivan explained that we’re going somewhere really classy and I have to keep my trap shut unless he says otherwise. I don’t care because I get to have a night out with Albert Rossi wearing one of these beauties. You are the best friend in the whole wide world, Nell!’
I picked out a baby pink gown with a silk bodice and a frothy silk crepe and skirt which reached almost to the floor. There was more yardage in it than most people could afford in a month of Sunday’s, even with coupons. And it was nothing like the underskirts made of parachute silk that you sometimes found on the markets. This was pure class and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see it on the likes of Princess Margaret. My hands were shaking with excitement and I struggled with the zip.
‘Here, let me help,’ squealed Gypsy. ‘Don’t bust it for God’s sake.’
She dashed to my side and fastened it up and I stood smoothing the folds of material down over my hips.
‘How do I look?’ I said, self-consciously. It was such a showstopper of a dress, there would be no shrinking into the background in it, even in a room full of lords and ladies.
‘Ravishing, darling,’ she said, in her poshest accent. ‘Now, it’s my turn!’
She pulled out a plunge-neck black velvet gown which looked tiny, a bit too tiny for her ample frame. But there was no stopping her. She hoicked it on over her head and wriggled herself down into it before turning around and asking me to zip her up.
I was almost knocked out by the cleavage on display.
‘Albert’ll have a couple of things on his mind all night other than the cards if you don’t cover those up,’ I laughed, flinging her a mink stole that was hanging over the rail.
‘Spoilsport,’ she pouted. But she put it around her shoulders, making her neckline a bit more modest.
Shoeboxes were lined up beside the sofa and I opened one, relishing the crinkle of the tissue paper as I unwrapped a beautiful pair of pointy-toed stiletto-heeled silk shoes in pink to match my dress. I tried them on. They fitted me like a glove.
Gypsy, meanwhile, was forcing her feet into a pair of peep-toe velvet platform sandals, which were at least a size too small.
‘Perfect,’ she breathed.
I rooted through my handbag and flipped open the tiny mirror of my powder compact to apply lippy, rouge and lashings of mascara, which Gypsy then retouched, as if she were painting the Cistine Chapel.
‘There!’ she said, eventually, when she was satisfied with how I looked.
She held my arm as we tottered out of the office and through the club, to wolf whistles from the fellas and glacial stares from Alma and her mob of dancers.
‘Oh, Lah-di-dah,’ she crowed. ‘S’pose you think you’re better than us now, do you?’
Lou the barman waved at me and produced a bunch of daffodils from under the counter.
‘These are from Jimmy,’ he said, thrusting them towards me, with a guilty look. ‘He left them here earlier, to say sorry that he couldn’t meet you because some urgent work came up. You were so busy talking to Mr Sullivan that I forgot to tell you…’
I looked at the wilted blooms, wrapped in an old newspaper, and thought back to me sitting in that cinema on my own like a maiden aunt. It was such a pathetic gesture of apology, compared with the room full of flowers that Billy Sullivan had just laid on. I scoffed: ‘It don’t matter now, Lou, I got a better offer, didn’t I?’
I turned to Gypsy as we stepped out into the street, where Billy had the engine to his gleaming black Bentley running, and Albert was sitting beside him in the passenger seat.
‘I don’t think we’re better than those other girls,’ I whispered to Gypsy. ‘I know we are.’
She gave my arm a little squeeze.
‘Act like you were born to it,’ I said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
NELL
Mayfair, London, March 1947
The engine of Billy’s Bentley thrummed softly in the night air as we drew up outside a three-storey mansion in Berkeley Square.
A doorman in a top hat and tails with shiny buttons on his coat opened the car door for me. I hesitated for an instant before stepping uncertainly on to the pavement. Billy offered me his arm and we walked up the front and into another world.
‘You look beautiful, Nell,’ he murmured, his eyes lighting up as he appraised my form. ‘Any prince would be proud to have you on his arm.’
‘Welcome to The Lucky Seven, ladies,’ said the doorman.
We strode through the grand entrance hall, lit by gilt chandeliers with dozens of flickering candles casting shadows up the wall. In front of us lay a thickly-carpeted staircase with ebony balustrades.
A hush fell over the drawing room. Murmured conversations between bored ladies perched on over-stuffed sofas faded into silence. I felt all eyes on me, or rather, my dress, as they wondered how on earth I was wearing Dior when their seamstresses, their private accounts at Derry and Tom’s and Marshall and Snellgrove, had been unable to procure it for them.
The silk rustled as I teetered along beside Billy, who started glad-handing men dressed in dinner jackets and bow ties as if they were old friends. But their accents gave them away as toffs, who knew little of the underbelly of London that Billy inhabited.
Albert was striding across the room after him, with Gypsy struggling to keep up, in her too-small shoes.
One of the toffs had a little moustache which reminded me of Hitler. He just about devoured me and Gypsy with his eyes, while his wife looked daggers and twiddled with the string of pearls at her throat.
Posh Hitler offered Gypsy his hand, while clasping hers longer than was necessary. Then he bit into the olive in his martini in a way that was almost indecent as he leered with a rubbery bottom lip. Gypsy, who was rather flustered, let her mink stole slip, exposing the mounds of white flesh of her bosom, barely contained by the velvet dress. Albert’s lip curled at the edges as he noticed that; it was more like a sneer than a smile.
‘Can we make ourselves useful? Perhaps we could fix some drinks?’ I ventured, desperate to break the ice and stop the posh fool from falling headlong into Gypsy’s knockers in front of his wife.
Billy nodded, and carried on backslapping his way around the room, as chairs were moved back and the men sat down at an oval table, topped with a green baize cloth.
‘Thanks for yo
ur patience, gentlemen,’ said Billy, speaking softly. I went over to the drinks trolley and started to mix a whisky and soda for him. I’d seen Lou the barman do it often enough, but now my hands were shaking.
‘And my thanks to Lord Dockworth for hosting us here at this special meeting of the Lucky Seven Club.’
Posh Hitler, Lord Dockworth, cleared his throat in approval.
Spielers, illegal private gaming dens, were operating all over London in backrooms and basements, but The Lucky Seven was clearly a top-class joint which evaded the cozzers by moving from mansion to mansion in Mayfair.
I carefully placed the crystal tumbler by Billy’s elbow. Gypsy was busy fussing over a martini for Albert as Lord Dockworth, licked his lips in my direction. Lady Dockworth rolled her eyes as if she’d seen it all before and marched over to the other side of the room, where she gathered in a huddle with her chums, who were a mass of pointy elbows and nipped-in waists. They had a way of draping themselves over the expensive furniture that came with years of practice, to ensure they still looked charming. But when she turned her back on me and Gypsy, she made it abundantly clear that we were not going to be having any cosy chats with her or her friends this evening.
Thick, swagged curtains kept out the evening chill and a fire blazed in the grate beneath an enormous marble mantlepiece. In a painting on the wall above it, a cheery-looking cavalier was waving his hat in the air on a horse that was rearing up but going nowhere fast.
I had no idea how to cope with the amount of material in my dress if I sat down, so I stood, pretending to admire the painting, with Gypsy hovering at my side.
‘Right, gents, chemin de fer is the game of the night,’ said Billy. ‘Can we agree a minimum stake of fifty pounds per chip on the black this evening, one hundred on the white and five hundred on the red?’
There were piles of ivory discs of different colours on the table in front of each chair. I could hardly believe my ears. These people must have pots of money sitting at home.
A servant brought in six new packs of cards on a silver tray and took each one in turn from a cellophane wrapper. Players took a pack each and shuffled them and then they were all put together and a player to Billy’s left cut them.
The cards went into a box on the table and Billy used a long wooden paddle to deal them. It was quite a palaver for a game of cards.
It took me a while to get the hang of the game, but I watched closely, while Gypsy yawned and fidgeted as if she was bored in a lesson at school.
I could understand why men gambled at the dog track. There, at least you could have a tip off about a dog or know its running form; but with cards, there was so much at stake and so much more was down to chance. It seemed like madness to me and for such huge sums of dosh.
The cards were dealt in pairs, face down, and the aim was for each player to try to beat the bank, betting on whose cards added up to nine. The winner of each round took over as the bank. It was fast-paced and Billy seemed to be on a losing streak at first, with the chips stacking up in front of all the other players, but when he was down to his last two fifty quid pieces, he started to win and win big. The more rounds that were played, the better he got. It was mesmerising.
Lord Dockworth wasn’t smiling anymore and had started to write cheques like they were going out of fashion to get more and more chips. Hours whizzed by. In the end, his missus and her stuck-up friends called it a night and their haughty goodbyes echoed in the hallway. I kept refilling Billy’s glass every time he signalled me, by clicking his fingers. He’d drunk so much whisky, I began to wonder if he had hollow legs, but he seemed more focused than ever. My feet were killing me, but I stood watch, trying to work out Billy’s secret for winning, hardly daring to move in case he wanted another drink.
Then I spotted it. It was just a tiny bend in the angle of the high value cards, so that when you held them in your hand, they inclined slightly outwards on the right corner. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t imagining it, but it was there alright. My time at the Alaska Fur Factory meant I had a great eye for detail and once I saw it on one card, it was plain as day on the others. Somehow, Billy Sullivan had fixed the decks. It was all a con. His winning streak wasn’t down to skill or luck. He was cheating, plain and simple.
I coolly poured myself a long drink of soda, with plenty of ice, and I kept my discovery to myself.
Gypsy, meanwhile, had availed herself of the free drinks and was lounging, half-asleep on an armchair.
When the grandfather clock in the corner struck three, Lord Dockworth threw in his cards and pushed his chips towards Billy, who called in the rest of his winnings. The peer took out his cheque book but Billy waved his hand, dismissively.
‘That won’t be necessary, Ernest. I’m sure we can find another way for you to repay the favour, some other time…’
Lord Dockworth looked visibly relieved. I fancied he’d have to have sold that cavalier over the mantelpiece to clear his debt. They shook hands.
Albert pulled Gypsy to her feet and she rubbed sleep out of her eyes.
‘Come and have a nightcap with Lord Dockworth and me in the library,’ he whispered in her ear, holding her up, with an arm around her waist. She lay her head on his shoulder.
I started moving towards her, to make sure she was alright, but out of nowhere, Billy held me in an iron grip: ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘But what about Gypsy?’
‘She’s a big girl, she can look after herself,’ he said.
Gypsy glanced up at me with those big violet-blue eyes of hers. ‘I’m fine, Nell,’ she slurred, ‘I’m making an evening of it with Albert.’
The moon disappeared behind some thick clouds as we left The Lucky Seven. Billy got behind the wheel of his Bentley and we set off at a snail’s pace through Mayfair, with only the headlamps to light the way.
At Bond Street, he turned a sharp right and then pulled in, right beside a jeweller’s store. He flipped open the boot and pulled out an iron bar, which he wrapped in his coat. Before I knew what was happening, he’d smashed through the plate glass and seized a necklace from the display case.
The sound of a policeman’s whistle echoed in the dark but Billy was already back in the car, laughing like a maniac, as he tossed the necklace into my lap.
He put his foot on the accelerator and we screeched away down the street.
I don’t know whether it was fear, or the sheer thrill of it, but I found myself laughing out loud too.
‘So, do you like your present?’ He grinned.
It was a massive ruby, about the size of a walnut. I held it in the palm of my hand, and it thrilled me to the core.
‘It’s beautiful. Can I really keep it?’
‘I said I would pay you handsomely,’ said Billy. ‘And I am a man of my word. Just ask anyone in my gang.’
We drove up Piccadilly and through the warren of backstreets, with Billy humming softly to himself.
As he parked the car, he turned to me: ‘Let me see you in the necklace, Nell. Try it on for me.’
I held it to my throat, feeling the weight of the gem against my skin and then his hands were at the nape of my neck, fastening the heavy gold clasp. As his fingers stroked downwards over my bare shoulders, a tingle shot through me, like a jolt of electricity. His touch was like the pull of a silken thread somewhere deep inside me.
‘It looks beautiful, just like you,’ he murmured. ‘A woman like you deserves the best in life.’
Billy pulled me into his arms: ‘I know where you belong, Nell, even if you can’t see it yet.’
Then, he kissed me, full on the lips.
And before I knew what I was doing, I kissed him back, hungrily.
I loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt to get to him. He was so strong, but he treated me like I was his most precious his jewel, covering me with tender kisses.
The streetlamp glowed dimly, lighting up his face, with those eyes as black as coal staring into the depths of my soul. Billy hel
d me in his gaze, his lips brushing against mine. ‘Is this what you want, Nell?’ he said, softly, unfastening my dress.
‘Yes,’ I said, my body aching with longing.
I knew it was wrong, but it felt so right being in the arms of the evil gangland boss, Billy Sullivan, the King of Soho.
Chapter Twenty-Five
ALICE
Soho, London, March 1947
Now, I don’t know about you, but when someone goes a bit quiet on me, I start to worry.
It had been a few days since I’d heard from Nell, and so I thought I’d pay her a little visit, to see what she’d been up to.
Her landlady didn’t half grumble when I knocked her up out of bed to answer the door and she kept calling Nell ‘Gypsy’ for reasons I couldn’t fathom. Lord only knows what porkie pies Nell had been telling, but I played along with it.
‘That’s right, she’s always been a gypsy, roaming the city, footloose and fancy-free, but I promised her late mother, poor soul, that I would take care of her, and that is what I must do,’ I said, huffing and puffing my way up the narrow staircase, ignoring her demands for rent.
So, imagine my surprise when I found Nell lounging in bed, dressed like a princess, wearing a necklace fit for a queen.
I yanked the bedclothes off her and she tumbled out of the bed, landing in a heap at my feet, where I happened to give her a little kick, just to make sure she was fully awake.
‘What the bleeding hell do you think you are playing at?’ I spat. ‘Did you hoist that yourself?’
She looked up at me, startled, like a rabbit in the headlights: ‘No, it was a present.’
I grabbed a fistful of the finest silk of her dress, as I hauled her up on her feet: ‘Present? Who from?’
There was enough quality cloth there to pay a king’s ransom.
She was stunned into silence and looked at the floor.
I clasped the ruby at her neck with one hand and held my cane right against her cheek with the other: ‘And where in the name of God did you nick that from? You will have the law on us with a stone that size going missing, you little fool. Was it from someone’s drum or a shop window?’
