Sisters Three

by Jessica Stirling

  Sunday visits to Gloria’s were an ordeal. Gloria was jealous of Babs and the children but wouldn’t admit it. She took out her frustration by showing off her house and would drag Babs round the bungalow pointing out this new rug, that new table and, of course, the repapered hallway or repainted kitchen. Dennis would shuffle glumly in her wake as she whipped open cupboards or knelt on the lino and criticised his shoddy workmanship which, of course, was not shoddy at all.

  Gloria’s house-proudness weighed heavily on the little Hallops. Even Baby April was castigated for spilling milk on the brand-new Axminster. Only Angus seemed to have his aunt’s measure. He knew precisely how to render a maximum amount of damage with a minimum amount of risk. When the polished dressing-table in the bedroom suddenly developed scars or the floral-patterned wallpaper in the lounge sprouted inky stains and Auntie Gloria screamed, ‘Who done that? Who done that? Angus, wuz that you?’ Angus would look astonished and let his eyes fill with crocodile tears, and Uncle Dennis would mutter, ‘Ach, Gloria, leave the wee chap alone. I’ll fix everything when they’ve gone.’

  Dennis was exceptionally adept at fixing things. He could erect a bookcase or re-wire a dining-room just as efficiently as he could strip a stolen motorcar of its parts, install the stolen parts into perfectly legal and legitimate vehicles and place the perfectly legal and legitimate parts that he’d removed on the shelves of the Motoring Salon, a simple enough ruse that fooled clients and coppers alike. Dennis’s only hobby, apart from drinking, was reconstructing ‘Beezers’. He would tweak the engines of the lightweight BSA three-wheelers until they could top a hundred and, given favourable road conditions, take off like gliders. Gloria had no notion that her husband was so talented, for his passivity had deceived her into believing that he had no character at all.

  Babs knew better, however. Babs was all too well aware that without Dennis her husband would be rolling in something less sweet-smelling than clover and that if Dennis ever chose to strike out on his own Jackie would probably wind up in bankruptcy court, if not the jail. When trouble crept into her life it was Dennis to whom Babs turned for advice.

  In the dank afternoon air, Babs and Dennis strolled up and down the path that bisected the lawn, puffing away on the cigarettes that Gloria did not care to have smoked in the house. Through the French doors Babs could hear Gloria yelling, ‘Angus, Angus, put that down,’ and the thin piping wail of Baby April left temporarily in Daddy’s custody. Only the girls were silent for they, Babs suspected, had drifted into Auntie Gloria’s bedroom to experiment with the powder bowl, lipsticks and perfume spray.

  ‘Dennis,’ Babs said, ‘has he been back?’

  ‘Who? The copper?’

  ‘Aye, the copper.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Who? The copper?’

  ‘Aye, the copper.’

  ‘Didn’t Jackie tell you?’

  ‘You know Jackie,’ Babs said, ‘talks a lot, says nothin’.’

  Dennis pinched the Gold Flake between forefinger and thumb and glanced at Babs warily. Drink had already begun to affect him but he had a long way to go before he reached the state of permanent bewilderment in which his father dwelled.

  ‘Come on, Den,’ Babs wheedled. ‘What did the copper want?’

  ‘He wasn’t after us.’

  ‘Who then? Dominic?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did you tell Dominic about the copper?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘This copper was a detective, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Dennis, for God’s sake talk to me.’

  ‘He looked at the shelves, never touched nothin’. Never asked t’ see the books. He was just tryin’ to scare Jackie.’

  ‘What d’ you mean – scare Jackie?’

  ‘He thought Jackie’d go trottin’ off to Dominic.’

  ‘Why would the copper want Jackie t’ do that?’ Babs said.

  ‘To confirm the connection between us an’ him,’ Dennis answered.

  They had reached the end of the garden, a red-brick wall scrolled with withered clematis, and had turned their backs on Gloria’s little treasure chest crammed with the brand-new furniture that the Hallops’ criminal endeavours had purchased. Crime was a word never uttered in the Hallop household; the boys had been at the game for so long that it simply didn’t occur to them that the manner in which they made a living was legally or morally wrong.

  ‘It’s no secret Dominic put up the money to get us started,’ Babs said.

  ‘Nope,’ Dennis hesitated, ‘but it sure is a secret how much he takes out.’

  ‘How much does he take out?’

  ‘Ask Jackie.’

  ‘I’m askin’ you, Dennis.’

  ‘Twenty per cent, give or take.’

  ‘Twenty per cent!’ Babs exclaimed. ‘How much is that in shillin’s an’ pence?’

  ‘A lot,’ said Dennis. ‘An awful lot.’

  She drew closer, laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘It would matter if it dried up then?’ she said.

  ‘If what dried up?’

  ‘The monthly pay-out.’

  ‘You mean if we stopped payin’ Dominic his whack.’ Dennis raised an eyebrow. ‘Jeeze, Babs, what would we do that for?’

  ‘Dominic must’ve made his profit by now,’ Babs said. ‘I mean, he must’ve collected interest on his investment ten times over.’

  ‘It’s his due, Babs,’ said Dennis. ‘Come on, you know how dues work?’

  ‘Takin’ dues from your own brother-in-law doesn’t seem fair to me.’

  ‘It’s the system,’ Dennis said.

  ‘It’s a lousy system.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Well, it is.’ Babs pinched the coal from her cigarette and dropped it to the ground. ‘If the coppers are on to Dominic maybe they’re on to us too.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Dennis said.

  ‘I do worry about it.’

  ‘Everythin’ll be fine.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says Dominic.’

  ‘Says Dominic,’ Babs repeated sarcastically. ‘Aye, but it’s not Dominic who’ll go up the river, is it? I mean, it’s not bloody Dominic who’ll do the time.’

  ‘Nobody’s gonna do time.’

  ‘Tell that to the coppers.’

  ‘Got you jumpy, hasn’t it?’

  ‘’Course it has.’

  ‘We’ve been turned over before,’ Dennis reminded her.

  ‘Aye, but only by uniforms, not the flamin’ CID.’

  ‘He was only sniffin’ round,’ said Dennis. ‘Showin’ off to his sister.’

  ‘Dennis, you’re not tellin’ me the truth.’

  ‘It’s the war,’ Dennis said. ‘Everybody’s wettin’ themselves about the war.’

  ‘What’s the war got t’ do with us?’

  ‘Spies.’

  ‘Spies?’ Babs set one sturdy leg before the other and shook a little on her half-heels. ‘God, I never thought o’ that. Of course, our Dominic’s an Eye-tie.’

  ‘Got it in one,’ said Dennis.

  ‘Is that why the coppers are makin’ a fuss?’

  ‘Could be.’

  She brought her feet together, gave a little hop. ‘If Dominic did get lifted,’ she said, ‘what would happen to the firm?’

  ‘Somebody else would have to operate it until he got released again.’

  ‘Somebody who wasn’t Italian, presumably?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Dennis. ‘Presumably.’

  ‘You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘An’ Jackie, has he thought about it too?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Who do you reckon would be in the best position t’ take over?’ Babs said. ‘It’d have to be somebody in the family, somebody who wasn’t Italian, somebody Dom knew he could depend on, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Dennis.

 
‘And you know who it would have to be, Dennis, don’t you?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Dennis, nodding at last. ‘Us.’

  Chapter Five

  After two weeks Dominic still hadn’t shown up at the farmhouse. In fact he appeared so disinterested in Penny Weston’s welfare that Tony was beginning to wonder if Dom really had shipped in the girl just to keep him away from Polly. He’d telephoned Polly three times from a call-box in Breslin but had got the nanny on the line on each occasion and had hung up without uttering a word.

  Last Monday he’d dropped in early at the Central Warehouse. Dominic had already been in a meeting in the top-floor office with two guys Tony had never seen before and Dominic had steered him hastily into the outer office and, after a word or two, had more or less sent him packing. On Friday he’d called at the warehouse again to pick up some household items for the girl. Dominic had been in the ground-floor stockroom with Sammy McGinn, the foreman, and the moment he’d appeared Dom had snapped, ‘What do you want, Tony? Can’t you see I’m busy,’ and turned on his heel and left without another word. Fifteen years of doing Dom’s dirty work, of being Dom’s confidante and counsellor entitled him to more consideration than that, he reckoned. If he was being sidelined there could only be one reason for it: Dominic had found out about the affair.

  It was almost eleven o’clock before Tony arrived at the farm.

  Rain obscured the hills, the wipers clicked infuriatingly, the windscreen was clouded with condensation and he could hear nothing but rain, hard country rain drumming on the car roof. The track was a quagmire, the yard awash. The girl was framed in the farmhouse doorway, looking out for him. She wore the yellow oilskins and sou’wester he’d bought for her yesterday, ankle-length rubber boots, green woollen stockings. Her knees were bare beneath the hem of the oilskin and for an unguarded moment Tony wondered if she was naked beneath the coat.

  ‘You are late,’ she said before he even got out of the car.

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Are the roadways flooded?’

  ‘The roads are fine.’

  ‘Well, you are here now, so we will get on with it.’

  He leaned across the passenger seat and spoke to her through the half open window. Raindrops like steel bayonets struck the slates of the roof and cobbles of the yard. He had to shout to make himself heard above the drumming of the rain.

  ‘Get on with what?’

  ‘They said they would come today.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Dominic did not tell you?’

  ‘I haven’t seen much of Dominic lately.’

  ‘Do you want coffee?’ she asked. ‘We have time for coffee.’

  He got out of the car and splashed across the cobbles into the house.

  The girl did not close the front door behind him but remained in the doorway, peering out into the rain. For all her aplomb she couldn’t disguise her anxiety but when she turned and caught him staring at her she gave him one of her cheesy Americanised smiles.

  In the big, stone-flagged kitchen there was no evidence that Dominic had spent the night, no little clues or tell-tales. The kitchen floor had been scrubbed. Shiny new saucepans were arranged on the shelves, the new rug on the floor, the new plaid throw draped over an ancient armchair by the hearth. She had even filled the new brass coal bucket from the coal pile in the byre. Whatever else Penny Weston might be, she was certainly no slattern.

  On the marble-topped dresser the new coffee-maker chugged and steamed. She had insisted that he find her a proper Italian coffee-maker. He’d collected it grudgingly from the warehouse on Friday. He could see sense in her request now, though. The machine was the most homely thing in the farmhouse and the aroma of coffee spiced with vanilla certainly made the atmosphere more welcoming.

  She came into the kitchen and took off the oilskin hat but not the coat. She tapped coffee from the machine into a cup and gave it to him, poured another cup for herself. She held the cup in both hands and sipped from it, looking up at him through the fragrant steam.

  ‘What has he been saying about me?’ she asked.

  ‘Practically nothing since that night in Rutherford when neither of you were giving away a damned thing.’

  ‘Is that why you do not like me?’

  ‘Who says I don’t like you?’

  ‘Perhaps it is because you like me too much that you are nasty to me.’

  ‘I’m doing my job,’ Tony said. ‘If you think I’m not doing it well enough then complain to Dominic.’

  She gave him the smile again, then laughed. When she laughed she did something with her body that he had never seen any other woman do, a lithe, wriggling lift of the shoulders that made her look like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘Oh, Anthony, you are not jealous of him, you are jealous of me.’

  ‘I’m not jealous of either of you,’ Tony said. ‘I just don’t know what the hell’s going on or what I’m expected to do.’

  ‘You have done it all already.’

  He never lost his temper, not with women. He had been reared in a house with three sisters and had learned the hard way how illogical women can be. His sisters had clamoured for admiration not for what they did but for what they were, God’s little gifts to mankind. Penny Weston didn’t demand admiration, though; she sneaked it from you, in spite of yourself. He reminded himself that he had patience, lots and lots of patience. He could break her down with his patience the way he’d broken down Polly. He felt a sudden warm surge like a soft orgasm in the pit of his stomach at the thought of how he would get the better of this girl in the long run and what he would do to her then.

  ‘Look, kid,’ he said, ‘I don’t much care what fate has in store for you. I’ve put up with more boring stuff than this.’ He didn’t break stride. ‘Who’s coming today. Tell me, or don’t tell me. I really don’t give a toss either way.’

  ‘Soon you will be back collecting payments from the unions?’

  ‘Is that what you think I do?’ Tony said.

  ‘It is what all the Manones do, is it not?’

  She had made an error, one little slip. He felt good about catching her out. If she thought that trade union manipulation was a viable racket in Scotland then she had been sadly misinformed. If she imagined that the tommy-gun would ever replace the broken bottle as a Scotsman’s weapon of choice then she was naïve. There were precious few guns on the streets here. Premeditated murder was a rarity, so rare in fact that it stayed in the mind like a great dark ink blot and nobody bragged about it afterwards. Compared to Chicago or Detroit or even Philadelphia this was Hicksville.

  For a split second it occurred to Tony that because she didn’t know these things she might be an impostor. But no, he was the impostor, Dominic and he and all the other tuppenny-ha’penny hard men, whether they were Micks or Jews or Eye-ties or just plain bread-and-butter Jocks. It had been four years since he’d had to use any muscle at all to enforce a payment. He was a reasonable man, just as reasonable as Dominic. All the clients knew it, knew he’d negotiate if he had to, protect when he had to, bring down the big fist only as a last resort.

  ‘Did Carlo really send you over here?’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘How is the old buzzard?’

  ‘He keeps good health,’ Penny said. ‘For his age.’

  ‘My old man will be pleased to hear it.’

  ‘You must not tell your father about me.’

  Tony finished the coffee, took the cup to the sink.

  Over his shoulder he said, ‘I wouldn’t know what to tell him even if I did feel inclined. Listen, kid…’

  ‘Do not call me “kid”. I am not a kid.’

  She was annoyed now. He might have got something out of her right there and then if she hadn’t gone to the window and then to the door. He stood behind her in the doorway and watched the truck slither down the track.

  It was a ten-tonner with a saturated tarpaulin lashed across the flat-bed behind the cab. He could make out two men in the cab. Wh
en the truck entered the yard he saw a third man perched miserably on top of the tarp.

  ‘Is this who we’re waiting for, Penny?’ he said. ‘Builders?’

  ‘They are carpenters.’

  ‘Are they here to repair the house?’

  ‘No, the stables.’

  ‘Really?’ Tony said. ‘Are you going into the riding business then?’

  ‘No, we are going into the business of making money.’

  ‘Making money? How?’

  ‘By printing it,’ she told him.

  And at that moment Tony realised that it might be rather a long time before Polly and he ever got together again.

  * * *

  In the initial weeks of his courtship of Rosie Conway, Sergeant MacGregor loitered about Mandeville Square and tried to appear as inconspicuous as possible, which was a tall order for a six-foot-two Highlander with curly fair hair. In addition, he had a way of rocking back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back like a pantomime simpleton and even the canny pigeons that strutted on the ledges above Shelby’s windows were amused by the daft big boy and would peep down at him, heads cocked, and crroo-crroo advice in mock Gaelic.

  Eventually Mr Robert took pity on the love-struck lump, yanked open the door and hissed, ‘For God sake, Sergeant, at least wait for her inside.’

  Gannon, of course, was less sympathetic. Never having had a copper at his mercy before he was determined to make the most of it. ‘Hoy, Sergeant,’ he’d chirp from the doorway, ‘Detective Sergeant. Miss Rosalind’s gettin’ ready for to be searched. She’ll be with yah in just a moment. She’s just takin’ her knickers off, like you requested,’ to which piece of insolence the officer only nodded and looked glum.

  Kenny wasn’t the only one who’d fallen foul of Cupid’s dart, of course.

  Rosie spent half the morning bobbing up from her chair, surveying the two great squares of street-coloured daylight and the anonymous faces that flowed past, watching anxiously for Kenny. When Kenny did at last appear her heart beat faster and there was a sound in her ears like rushing water.

  He would wait tentatively by the door and she would walk down the centre aisle. Customers skulking among the bookcases would glance up and observe the moment when the deaf girl and the Highland copper met. He would say shyly, ‘Fancy a bite to eat then?’ and she would shyly answer, ‘That would be very nice, thank you,’ as if it were all very off-the-cuff and not at all romantic.