by Milly Adams
He stood at the side of the stage, waving to the piano player, who grinned, and mouthed could murder a pint, as Sylvia suggested to the band ‘Begin the Beguine’. The players searched through the music resting on the stands, to no avail, so instead she sang unaccompanied, remembering how she and Saul would sing in the pubs, and even at Verity’s snooty club in Jermyn Street; singing for their supper, that time. What would Sister Augustine think of that? She realised that Steve was dancing with a WAAF. They didn’t talk, and he was as stiff as a board. Had Father O’Malley ‘excused’ them into a dancing pair? She sang on, and every time Steve turned he had eyes only for Sylvia.
The song ended, and while the applause rattled round the room, Harry, the piano player, suggested ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’, and with his accompaniment and the uncertain saxophone, but not the drummer who had taken his chance and done a runner, it worked well. As she held the last note, she could see Steve heading towards them and she held out her hand for him to help her down. Instead he leapt up, patted Harry on the back, then took over the saxophone from the older man, who wiped his forehead with relief, saying that Father O’Malley was a beggar for dragging people in when they had a cab they should be driving, or just when rescue was in sight, asking the rescuer to go and dance with a lonely girl.
The cabbie went on, ‘You’re a mate, son. I need to get on, yer see. I remember you coming here, Coppernob. Just a babe, but what a little terror you grew into. Glad yer seem ’appy. It takes time to get yersel’ sorted in yer ’ead, don’t it? Probably same for you, the girl coppernob that is.’
Steve and Sylvia looked at one another in agreement as Harry played a solo on the piano. Steve and Sylvia stood together nearby tapping their feet and Steve said, ‘If you aren’t an orphan, you don’t know how it is.’
Sylvia thought for a long moment, then said, ‘Yes, but there is love here, and laughter, and I realise there’s much to be grateful for. If we’re lucky we get that one person, as you had Dodge, and perhaps I have Rogers and Mrs B, and Polly and Verity, of course.’ She paused and took hold of her courage. ‘And there’s us.’
His arm slipped around her and he pulled her close, saying into her hair, ‘I’m so glad you said that.’
She sang again now, with Steve on saxophone. This time it was ‘Tea for Two’, and then ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’, and laughed as the room erupted into jive dancing, to the consternation of Father O’Malley, who was spoken to by Sister Augustine, and even received the dreaded wag of the finger. Father O’Malley wiped his forehead, and Sylvia thought at any moment he would cross himself.
She swung round, to see Harry standing and thwacking the keyboard, while Steve’s saxophone was pointing to the ceiling as he blasted out the notes. She conducted them to a halt at the end, all three of them together. They bowed to the applause, panting, laughing. When they lined up the only ones missing were Saul and Tom, Polly and Verity.
Over the noise Steve said, ‘It’s ten o’clock, I have to go, but come with me. We can travel part of the way together and I’ll leave you where I can get a connection and you can carry on. It’ll just give us a little longer together. Say yes, because I can’t bear to miss a moment of “us”.’
The musicians bowed again, then Father O’Malley leapt on to the stage and hustled them off, saying, ‘Wonderful, wonderful, not sure what the sisters really thought of all that American dancing but they will recover.’
Steve said, ‘And so will you, Father. But look, we have to go. Shifts.’
‘I’ve others to take over the stage now, but my thanks, both of you.’
Harry made for the hall with them and the boys lagged behind, chatting, as Sylvia headed along the dark corridor. There was a movement to her right, and Harriet emerged from the shadows. Sylvia knew she should stop, but every part of her wanted to brush past. Harriet took all decision from her and walked alongside, hands clasped in front of her and whispering, so quietly that Sylvia had to strain to hear, ‘Dear friend, you seem happy. Remember that you can always come back. After all, lives change, and realisation comes that the selfishness of personal happiness counts for nothing in the face of God’s love and purpose. Never forget that I am here, alone, when that wasn’t what we promised.’ She reached out and held Sylvia’s arm, shaking it, just as Sister Augustine, standing at the door into the street, turned. Harriet hurried back into the refectory.
For a moment Sylvia let the darkness of the corridor and her guilt smother her but then Steve was by her side, walking with her to the door, saying, ‘You know, bugger it, I was going on shift early, but why? Tonight I’ll get there on time, so I’ll come all the way to Southall with you.’
They thanked Sister Augustine, who looked at Sylvia closely, taking her hand and pressing it gently. ‘You look happy, and that is all we want for you,’ she said. ‘Remember my words, dear Sylvia, not those of everyone with an opinion they wish to force upon you.’
Steve said, as they walked down the street, ‘I hadn’t realised that Sister Augustine is such a good woman, but what did she mean by everyone with an opinion, and so on?’
Sylvia said, ‘I don’t really know.’ But Sister Augustine had clearly seen Harriet’s intensity, the shake of her arm, and probably guessed that it could add to the confusion that she knew Sylvia had experienced over her relationship with God.
As they continued, Steve’s arm came around her and he said, ‘You are my everything, Sylvia. I know it seems ridiculous – after all, one minute I didn’t know of your existence, and now I feel I have known you all my life.’ He half laughed. ‘Well, perhaps in a way I have, both of us living here, but in different houses, and separated by – what, five years?’ They walked on in silence. She said tentatively, ‘You make me so happy, and I feel so different since we met, but I’m scared …’
She stopped. She didn’t want to talk about a broken promise, about the selfishness of love, because she feared Harriet could be right. Was happiness selfish? Would she, they, pay? Steve was talking over her thoughts now, as they reached the underground station, where the bus stop stood too, and it was his voice she listened to. ‘Don’t be scared. Nothing’s going to happen to me, or you. We just have to remember to live the day to its fullest. After all, what happens, will happen.’
But that wasn’t what she had been scared of.
They took a couple of buses, until finally she was within walking distance of the depot. Steve got off with her, and for a moment she wanted to cling to him and never let him go. The clouds had built, few people were about, and she didn’t have to cling because suddenly he was holding her tightly. They kissed, and kissed again, and again, and he said, against her mouth, ‘I never ever want to let you go, never. But I must. There are houses to hose, lives to save, you to miss when you go on to Limehouse, and if you ever, ever get in the way of a V2 again, I will never forgive you.’ He pulled away. ‘Do you understand, Sylvia Simpson? Because I love you more than life itself.’
She whispered, ‘I understand.’ She pulled his head down and kissed his eyes, his cheeks and finally his mouth, saying against it, ‘I love you, Steve Bates. Love you until the sky falls in. Do you understand?’
They were smiling as he straightened, saluted, and turned away, almost singing, ‘I understand, oh I do so understand.’ He ran then, to catch the bus heading towards the east. She watched him go and knew that Harriet was wrong, for love wasn’t selfish: she would give her life for that man.
At Golders Green in the sitting room of Jacob Fisher’s apartment, Verity and Polly checked their watches as the chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall reminded them that they should be leaving. Solly sat to their left, in a comfortable armchair, with his son Jacob and daughter-in-law Rachel ranged in a worn settee to their right which Solly had just told them had come from his Furniture Emporium. Polly bet he had only given them a small discount. She asked. Solly tapped his nose. ‘Mine to know, yours to find out.’
They all laughed.
Polly nu
dged Verity. ‘It’s well past ten o’clock, we should go, Solly, or we will turn into pumpkins, and I for one don’t want to. But neither do I want to go. It’s just been so fine being here, seeing you so well. Grumpy but well, and to tell you too much about our worries. Leon Arness in particular. Very boring.’
Jacob leaned forward and said, ‘This isn’t Dad being grumpy, young Pol. He’s on his best behaviour in case you drag him under some more rubble. And you have not been boring. There is much darkness simmering that has nothing to do with the war.’
But Rachel was looking confused. ‘Pumpkins you said? Why would you turn into such a thing?’
Polly said, ‘Ah, don’t tell me, Jacob, that you haven’t introduced your wife to the story of Cinderella? Well, I insist that you do so soon, but briefly Rachel, it’s all about a scullery maid, who isn’t really a maid but the daughter of the Baron who has married again. His wife is horrid, and so are her daughters …’ She stopped, seeing Rachel looking all at sea.
Verity took over. ‘What Pol’s trying to explain is that all is well in the end and Cinderella marries her prince. But as Pol said, it’s up to Solly or your husband to fill you in on the details, because we really must go.’ She started to rise, as Polly said, ‘Meanwhile, talking of scullery maids finding their prince, our own boater has, I hope, found hers.’
She rose too.
Solly reached forward, gesturing to the girls and his son and daughter-in-law. ‘If, as you said earlier, it is that young fireman, nothing bonds like the saving of a life, and if they are both without parents, then they will know to cling together.’ He looked at Rachel and Jacob. ‘It is what we do, after all, my children, and will do even when we discover news of Emmanuel, and so many others of our family.’
The girls were moved by his intensity, and Verity said, ‘You sound so worried, Solly. Is there still no news, and here we were, grizzling on about a horrid little crook?’
‘One minute our Emmanuel, my beloved papa, was here, the next he was gone, pouf.’ It was Rachel speaking as the two of them also rose. Jacob held her hand, stroking it, saying, ‘But Father is right, we have one another, whatever news we receive of him or the many members of our family in Hungary.’
Verity said, ‘You have us, too. For whatever you need, you have the three of us and always will.’
Solly was struggling to rise, but Verity leaned down and kissed his cheek, pushing him back and telling him, ‘No, you sit here and guard your will against all comers, dear Solly.’
She made way for Polly, who lifted his hand, and kissed it. ‘You take care, and a second kiss from Sylv. She loves you very much.’
They left, with Jacob seeing them to the door. Polly said, ‘If we can help, tell us, any time.’
Jacob half bowed. ‘That is what I wish to say to you, and dear Sylvia. Any time, you understand. Do not worry alone. None of us should, and I will be alert for someone called Leon Arness.’
They left, but Jacob remained standing at the door. He called softly, ‘My gratitude knows no bounds, for the presence of you three saved my beloved father. I repeat, please, if you need me, come, and meanwhile I will report if I find anything on Joe’s father.’
Chapter 18
In the Blind Weasel plans are being laid
Leon sat in Norton’s former chair, in his former office at the back of his former club, the Blind Weasel, on the edge of the West End which looked on its last legs, but weren’t, not really, but it were a good front. Leon loved the word ‘former’. He had heard it from one of the two coppers he had on his books. It sounded important. He looked around Norton’s former office slowly, so slowly. There were no windows in the office, and only a little lighting. Had Norton’s former bungalow been t’same, before the V1 got him, and took him out? Vengeance rocket, eh? Well, he’d got what was coming to him for trying to put him, Leon Arness, away.
Norton were going to show the judge his books, even though ’e’d been happy enough to buy his black market booze from Leon, but it hadn’t worked out so well for ’im, had it?
But for Leon Arness, now known as Lionel Harkness – what was the point of having a road sign that would point the cops to him? – it had proved a way into something better than t’cut. He swung round, scanning the room again, its dark panels, the rugs under which was the main safe. Best to have no window, he preferred it that way. It was safer: no point in having the Met crashing through the window to take him out, or some other gang moving in on his territory. That’s always supposing they got past Dougie, and if they did the lamplight made him a poor target. Yes, he reckoned he’d thought of most things.
He looked at Norton’s fish tank, more like a whole wall of ’em buggers behind him. As he watched the fish he thought about Mario Babbaro, head of the Babbaro family, who ran a gang near Limehouse Basin.
It were amazing what the Italian shifted from t’Basin off the merchant ships that moored up, stuff that he sold on at a goodly price. Babarro should have been interned and his sons with him but weren’t, and now the internees were mostly back home anyways. That’s cos the war were winding down but, thank God, weren’t over yet. Leon nodded to himself. He had plans, and those plans meant taking over Mario’s Limehouse.
He spun round, reached into the top drawer of Norton’s old desk and drew out the fish food. As he rose, the chair seat moved, catching his leg. He cursed. Bloody Norton had been so damned fat he had strained the shock absorber in the joint between the seat and the pedestal, giving it a will of its own. Leon’s laugh was harsh; the key was not to let anyone or anything around you have just that – a will of their own.
He lifted the lid, took a pinch of food and spread it over the surface of the water, then another, as though he were their king. He watched the fish bobbing up, snatching at it, hating the stink of the food. He slammed on the lid and returned to his chair. As he threw the food into the drawer and slammed it shut, he shouted at the fish, ‘There yer go, I starves yer for a few days and then I watches to see who wins, so don’t yer forget who owns yer. And who can kill yer, or keep yer living.’
The smoke from his cigar rose straight up from the ashtray. He reached for it and rolled it between his fingers, feeling for any movement of the tobacco leaves. There was none. Who’d a thought he’d like ’em? Well, he weren’t sure he did, but they were Norton’s so why not? He laughed slightly. What’d them stinkin’ boaters think of him now, as they dragged their arses from Limehouse Basin, slogging along t’cut, freezing and hauling for a few ruddy pennies a run? What was the matter with ’em? They could sell off some of the load, easy as winking, or buy up some goods off the ships and sell them off along the way.
Who’d win between him and Mario? Well, he would, but that’s because he weren’t going to move until he were good and ready, then Mario would be fish food. ‘Yer ’ear that?’ he flung over his shoulder at the fish. ‘Too big fer yer, but a few in the Basin’ll be glad of ’em.’
There were three taps at the door, then another two. He checked that his revolver was on the shelf over the kneehole of his desk as he sat upright, one arm on the desk, the other on his lap and the gun handle towards him. The signal were right, but you couldn’t be too careful.
The knock came again, as it should. ‘Who it be, Dougie?’ he barked.
‘Tony Burrowes, boss.’
Leon smiled, ‘Let ’im in. Stay put t’other side.’
‘Right yer are, boss.’
The door opened, and the accountant came in, with the books under his arm. The one thing Leon had learned in the clink, or remand as they called it, was his numbers and his letters. His men didn’t know that; all they knew was that someone checked the books on the heels of the accountant. He’d inherited Manny from Norton and thought he were skimming the books, and when Manny disappeared they knew something was amiss – but not that Leon had checked the figures himself, and then killed ’im.
Of course, his men suspected Manny were feeding the fish in the Thames, but Leon shrugged. No one could talk
if he did the dirty work himself. So far, Tony was playing the figures straight. But when it came to it, so had Manny when Leon rechecked, but that were water under the bridge. He sniggered cos he were so funny.
The old man Burrowes placed the books on the table. ‘Profits up again, Mr Harkness. A steady rise, which is what you want.’
Tony Burrowes waited to be allowed to sit down in the hard chair opposite Leon. Norton had shortened the legs, so any visitor was lower than the boss. Leon kept the chair because he remembered how small it had made him feel. He leaned back in the chair, his eyes as hooded as his thoughts. ‘Ain’t what I want, though, be it? I want big profits, and quick. War’s ending, could all come crashing down.’
Tony said, ‘Not necessarily.’ He waited. Leon finally nodded, and Tony sat and looked up at Leon, who snapped, ‘I ain’t goin’ to give yer an invite, Tony. If you’ve summat to say, say it. I ain’t got all day, ’tis like ’olding a lock for some bugger, which only puts yer behind on yer run.’
Tony swallowed, holding his homburg by the brim and turning it round and round. ‘Look at it this way, boss. War costs a pretty penny, so the country borrows but it has to be repaid. How do we do that? By not spending much. If the Labour Party get in, they’ve these plans to spend and spend on … what d’they call it, the welfare or something; a war against poverty, on top of the debt. That’ll mean more borrowing, and more cuts where they can. So, we’re talking about rationing going on, p’raps even more severe, maybe for a couple of years, maybe more. The black market’s still yours for the taking.’ Leon took up his cigar again, then reached down into his bottom drawer and pulled out the wooden box containing the Cubans. ‘’Elp yourself.’ He threw a box of matches across the table, and watched Tony take one, sniff it, roll it between his fingers. He toasted it, holding the match beneath it, rolling the cigar over and above the flame. Once the tobacco had dried, Tony placed it in his mouth and, still with the flame beneath but not touching, drew the heat in until it lit.
