Sisters Three

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘Kenny does, don’t you, son?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kenny nodded. ‘Are those your terms, Mr Pea – Bernard?’

  ‘Simple terms for a simple solution,’ Bernard said. ‘Once that impediment’s been removed we can fix a date for the wedding and find you a place to live.’

  ‘It is not your wedding, Bernard!’ Rosie said. ‘Please do not interfere.’

  ‘Your dad’s right to interfere,’ Kenny said. ‘Don’t blame him for it.’

  ‘Is this,’ said Lizzie, ‘an arrangement? I mean, are you engaged now?’

  ‘I do believe we are,’ said Rosie.

  And at that moment the doorbell rang.

  * * *

  ‘Janet!’ Lizzie swayed. ‘My God! Our Janet. What’re you doin’ here?’

  ‘I’ve come for to talk t’ Frank.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Frank Conway. Don’t try tellin’ me you don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Frank’s dead, Janet. He’s been dead for twenty years.’

  ‘Let me in. I need to see for myself.’

  ‘See what, Jan?’ Lizzie said. ‘Look, I’ve got people here.’

  ‘You’re hidin’ somethin’ from me,’ Janet said. ‘I’m comin’ in.’

  ‘Bernard,’ Lizzie shouted.

  Too late: Janet brushed her aside, stepped into the tiny hall and bumped into Bernard just as he emerged from the living-room. There was a scuffle as Bernard and his sister-in-law confronted each other. Lizzie, already distraught, tried to drag Janet back. Surprise was on Janet’s side. She gave Bernard an almighty shove. When he staggered back, she tore herself from Lizzie’s grasp and chased him into the living-room, peered at the three people at the table and then, raising her arm, pointed a finger straight at Kenny and snapped, ‘You!’

  Kenny got up so clumsily that the table grated and shook and a fork clattered to the floor.

  ‘I might’ve known it,’ Janet hissed. ‘Thick as thieves, the lot o’ you. Keepin’ Frank from me. Where is he? Is he not here?’

  Bernard put a hand on her shoulder but she shook him off with such ferocity that he jerked away as if he’d touched a naked wire. Rosie shrank down in her seat crushed by the angry scene. One eyebrow raised, Fiona watched the strange, shrewish little woman, her brother and Bernard and Lizzie Peabody all begin shouting at once.

  ‘She’s gone mad at last. Frank – Frank’s been dead for…’

  ‘You tell her, Mr Policeman. He’s got Frank’s picture.’

  ‘What the hell is she talkin’ about?’

  ‘Killed in the war, he was.’

  ‘Dead? Not him. He’s come back for me at last.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her? Bernard, what’s this she’s sayin’?’

  ‘Ask him, ask him,’ Janet continued to point at Kenny. ‘Where is he? Have you got him locked away upstairs?’

  ‘There is no upstairs,’ Bernard said. ‘Frank’s not here, Janet. I swear.’

  ‘Frank’s still dead,’ said Lizzie. ‘Isn’t he, Bernard?’

  Then silence.

  Rosie cowered down, chin almost touching the table’s edge. She followed the shouting-match as best she could, eyes darting from the frightening figure of her aunt to her stepfather then up at Kenny who had said not a word so far. One thing was clear, her termagant aunt and her fiancé-to-be knew each other: Kenny and Aunt Janet McKerlie weren’t strangers.

  ‘Be careful, Janet,’ Bernard spoke at length, his voice steady. ‘I’m warning you to be very, very careful what you say here.’

  ‘Me? What about him? He’s Mr Policeman, didn’t you know?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bernard, totally calm now. ‘We know he’s a policeman.’

  ‘An’ did you know he’s got Frank.’

  ‘I haven’t got Frank,’ said Kenny. ‘I told you, I’ve no idea where…’

  ‘Frank’s dead, long dead,’ said Lizzie, adamantly ‘He died in the trenches.’

  ‘Dearest,’ Bernard said, ‘that may not be the case after all.’

  ‘You mean Frank’s still…’ Lizzie began.

  ‘Alive, yes,’ Janet spat out.

  And Lizzie, without any warning, swooned dead away.

  * * *

  Peace reigned in the bungalow in Raines Drive. The children had been fed and bathed but it was too early for bed and they’d been allowed to amuse themselves as best they could. Cross-legged in front of the gas fire in the bedroom, May and June were playing cards, the pack of Happy Families centred on the rug, little fans of cards held neatly in their hands. They were gambling for peppermints and grimly competing with each other for once.

  Mellowed by the excitements of the afternoon and with a little bag of liquorice bullets all to himself, Angus lay full-length in front of the coal fire in the lounge, browsing over a copy of The Dandy, chortling quietly to himself and wiping black saliva from his chin with the sleeve of his dressing-gown. Almost asleep, April lolled angelically on her mother’s knee and uttered no complaints.

  Babs stroked her daughter’s fine feathery hair with one hand and held a cigarette in the forked fingers of the other, puffing at it now and then as eloquently as a character from ‘Private Lives’.

  Mummy and Daddy in big moquette-upholstered armchairs on each side of the fireplace, the standard-lamp behind Daddy, shade tilted to keep the light from baby April’s eyes: the adults’ conversation was restrained, not argumentative but had an undertow, a tiny grating edge of agitation that Angus failed to notice.

  Jackie said, ‘I dunno what I’m gonna do without him.’

  ‘He’s only joinin’ the army, Jackie, not vanishin’ into thin air.’

  ‘He could be gone for three or four years.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Babs. ‘He’ll be back home every weekend.’

  ‘It’s Gloria, that bitch Gloria. He’s runnin’ away from Gloria.’

  ‘I could say he’s runnin’ to meet his destiny,’ Babs declared. ‘But I won’t.’

  ‘What the bloody hell does that mean?’

  ‘Language, Jackie.’

  ‘He can’t hear me. He’s not listenin’.’ Jackie blew out smoke and gazed fondly at his son. ‘Know what else Dennis is doin’? He’s liquidatin’ his assets.’

  ‘Sounds painful,’ said Babs.

  ‘Cut it out. It ain’t funny.’

  ‘I know it isn’t,’ Babs said. ‘You’re not the only one’ll miss him.’

  ‘He said somethin’ odd this afternoon. Told me t’ look after you.’

  ‘That was nice of him.’

  ‘He thinks you’re one in a million.’

  ‘Well, I am,’ said Babs.

  ‘If you had it all again, Babs, would ya marry Dennis instead o’ me?’

  ‘Is that what’s botherin’ you?’

  ‘Would ya?’

  ‘You picked a fine time to ask, Jackie.’ Babs blew smoke towards the hearth. ‘Nope, I’d still choose you. There! Is that better?’

  ‘Is it the truth, but?’

  ‘Are you askin’ if Dennis an’ me…’

  He glanced at her. She saw not the lazy bewildered sort of expression that she had grown used to over the years but genuine fear. She was tempted to tell him that Dennis was only a man upon whom she depended for advice but she remembered the hours together in the cab of the BSA, how she’d sensed that Dennis wanted her, not just to kiss and caress but to be his wife. There was no envy in Dennis, no malice or scheming. He was too decent for his own good. He would go off into the army without knowing that she wanted him too and that their friendship could so easily have become something more intimate.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she said. ‘Dennis would never do that to you, Jackie.’

  ‘Would – would you?’

  ‘No.’

  Supposin’ it was the other way round,’ Jackie said, ‘supposin’ it was me goin’ off to join up?’

  ‘The answer would be the same.’

  ‘Supposin’ I got killed, would you marry Dennis?’

 
‘Settin’ aside the fact that Dennis already has a wife,’ said Babs, ‘I couldn’t marry him ’cause the law wouldn’t allow me to marry your brother.’

  ‘He’d look after you better’n me.’

  ‘You look after us just fine, Jackie.’

  ‘Things are a bloody mess, Babs. Without Dennis they’ll get even worse.’

  ‘No, they won’t,’ said Babs. ‘I won’t let them.’

  ‘What can you do about it?’

  ‘Just you wait an’ see,’ Babs said. ‘I’m not a Conway for nothin’.’

  The fear faded visibly and instantly and the uncertain little smile that he used to hide his inadequacies appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘What’ve you got up your sleeve, sweetheart?’

  ‘Plenty,’ said Babs.

  ‘Just what are you up to?’

  She hesitated then, holding April to her, leaned out and flipped the cigarette into the fire. She hadn’t intended to divulge her plans to Jackie – she was unsure just how deep his loyalty to Dominic lay – but Dennis’s departure would change things dramatically and she needed Jackie on her side now.

  She said, ‘How d’ you fancy takin’ over from Dominic Manone.’

  ‘Are you nuts?’

  ‘Maybe goin’ into partnership with somebody who knows the ropes.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Somebody like John Flint, maybe.’

  ‘You are nuts.’

  ‘He’s worth a heck of a lotta money, our Dom?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s his money, not ours,’ Jackie said.

  Babs eased her daughter down across her lap. Her little pink fists opened and closed and her lips made sucking motions. She was asleep, though, fast asleep, only dreaming of the breast.

  ‘What if Dominic ain’t around?’ said Babs.

  ‘Dom’s not daft. He won’t join up, not him.’

  ‘No, but he might be sent to prison.’

  ‘You’re kiddin’!’ said Jackie in alarm. ‘Have you heard somethin’? Has that guy Rosie’s goin’ with told you somethin’?’

  ‘If there’s a war an’ Italy sides with Hitler, Dom will be sent away.’

  ‘No he won’t. He’s a Scot, not an Eye-tie.’

  ‘He’s a crook, Jackie. Face facts.’

  ‘Nah, he’s not. He’s just like you an’ me really.’

  Babs shook her head. ‘Jackie, Jackie, Jackie.’

  She watched her husband’s eyes narrow. He squinted at her with that foxy look that indicated that he had been struck by an idea.

  He said, ‘You wouldn’t shop him, would ya?’

  ‘God, no! ’Course I wouldn’t shop him. All I’m sayin’ is, if Dom does happen to get lifted an’ shipped off for the duration then somebody has to run his business, part of it anyway. By rights that somebody should be us – I mean you.’

  ‘What if I’m called up an all?’

  ‘With four kiddies?’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Jackie.

  He was interested and hadn’t recoiled in horror. Babs wished now that her plans had been riper, that she could have told him just what Dominic Manone was worth and what parts of the empire he, Jackie Hallop, was capable of operating and what parts would be sold off, or leased out, to Johnny Flint.

  My God, she thought, I’m waiting for Hitler, actually sitting here hoping Adolf will start dropping bombs soon: a thrill of guilt and excitement passed through her and she felt the fine, blonde hairs at the base of her spine stir and rise as if somebody – Jackie – had stroked them.

  Jackie said, ‘Trouble is, Dom goes, the business falls to Polly, not us.’

  ‘Polly will need a man to help her run it.’

  ‘Tony Lom…’

  ‘Another crook, another Italian. He’ll be gone too.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea o’ workin’ with Flint.’

  Typically, Jackie had accepted the proposition without knowing anything about it. He was relying on her already, taking her word as gospel.

  Babs said, ‘Flint knows the ropes. He’ll still be on the streets when everybody else is in the trenches or behind bars. Johnny ain’t gonna serve in anybody’s army but his own. There’s big money here, Jackie, big, big money. We deserve a piece of it, don’t we? God, what do we owe Dominic Manone? He soaked my Mammy for a debt that wasn’t her debt in the first place, an’ he’s rooked you for the best part o’ ten years. You think he set you up in the garage…’

  ‘Salon.’

  ‘… salon then, for your benefit. He did it for profit, his profit.’ Babs eased the baby into the crook of her arm and sat back. ‘Manone would screw anyone for a few miserable quid. That’s how he made his pile. Shouldn’t be him livin’ in a mansion with nurses an’ nannies an’ cooks at his beck an’ call. Should be us, you an’ me. If the coppers do send him up the river, why shouldn’t we get what we can out of it?’ She paused to gauge the effect of her oratory, then added, ‘My God, he isn’t really even British. When the shootin’ starts it could be one o’ Manone’s cousins puts a bullet through our Dennis’s head.’

  ‘Babs, for God’s sake don’t say that.’

  ‘True, though, innit?’

  ‘Maybe. I dunno. Maybe it is.’

  She inclined her head towards Angus who was patiently sucking the sugar-coating from a liquorice bullet. ‘Think of him, him an’ the girls. Don’t they deserve the best we can give them, war or no damned war?’

  Jackie was convinced, still a shade wary perhaps, but convinced.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You’re right. So what d’ ya want me to do, Babs?’

  ‘Nothin’ just yet,’ Babs said.

  ‘When then?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when,’ said Babs.

  * * *

  Cold water applied via a clean handkerchief soon brought Lizzie to her senses. Kenny and Bernard had lifted her from the floor and placed her in an armchair by the fire, a cushion under her head. In her confusion Rosie had abrogated all responsibility, had allowed Fiona to unbutton her mother’s dress and loosen her stays, to hold her plump wrist and check her pulse against the ticking of Bernard’s wristwatch. On the plates on the table the wreckage of Sunday night dinner cooled and congealed. In the kitchen an apple sponge bubbled and charred in the gas oven and the kettle on the stove screamed. The living-room seemed packed with bodies, strangers thrown together so that she, Rosie Conway, felt crushed by them. She couldn’t find a voice, couldn’t ask questions, as if all her training, all her practice, all that she had ever learned had been struck away.

  Kenny touched her. She looked up.

  ‘She’s all right, Rosie,’ Kenny told her. ‘It’s only shock. She’s not hurt.’

  ‘Hurt,’ said Janet, though Rosie didn’t hear. ‘She’s not the one who’s hurt.’

  Lizzie blinked, struggled, held out her arms to Bernard who, stooping eased her into a sitting position. ‘Put your head between your legs, dearest.’

  ‘Nuh, I…’

  ‘Here I’ll help you.’

  ‘Nuh, I … What … what happened?’

  ‘You fainted, Mrs Peabody,’ Fiona said.

  ‘Fainted?’

  ‘Conveniently,’ Janet said.

  Supporting herself on Bernard’s arm Lizzie drew in several deep breathes, then said, ‘Turn off the oven.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The oven, Bernard, turn off the oven.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Fiona offered and clopped off into the kitchenette.

  A moment later the kettle stopped screaming and the strong hot smell of burnt sponge wafted into the living-room.

  ‘I’ve spoiled your dinner,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’m – I’m sorry.’

  ‘Just you take it easy, Mrs Peabody,’ Kenny said. ‘Dinner’s not important.’

  ‘Never mind her an’ her dinner,’ Janet said. ‘Where’s my Frank? You said you’d find my Frank.’

  ‘I said nothing of the kind,’ Kenny told her angrily. ‘I don’t know where Fran
k is. All I have is a photograph and your word for it that it is Frank Conway.’

  ‘I knew he couldn’t be dead,’ Lizzie moaned. ‘I knew I should never have got married again. Oh, Bernard, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

  Then Rosie found her voice, felt it tearing at her lungs, clawing up into her throat. She had no memory of how her voice sounded only sensations in the muscles of her throat. She tucked her legs beneath her and hoisted herself to her feet.

  ‘YOU KNEW,’ she shouted. ‘KENNETH, YOU KNEW THAT MY FATHER WAS ALIVE AND YOU DID NOT TELL ME.’

  ‘No, Rosie, no. I had – I had a photograph of a man, another name, I didn’t have a clue that he was your – was Frank Conway.’

  ‘You liar. You did,’ said Janet. ‘I told you who he was.’

  ‘YOU USED ME, KUH-KENNY MACGREGOR. YOU JUST USED ME.’

  ‘Aye, an’ I’ll wager you didn’t take my word for it,’ Janet addressed her niece, not the policeman. Rosie followed the movement of the thin lips with difficulty. ‘I’ll wager you asked somebody else too. Who did you ask, Mr Policeman? Him? Bernard Peabody? Did you tell him that Frank was alive?’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t tell Bernard,’ said Kenny. ‘Didn’t tell anyone.’

  But Rosie saw how Fiona looked away and knew that Kenny was lying.

  ‘HOW COULD YOU DO IT? HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME,’ she cried, shouting so loudly that she felt the words ring in her deaf ears. ‘GET OUT OF OUR HUH-HOUSE. BUH-BOTH OF YOU. GET OUT. GET OUT.’

  ‘Rosie, I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘Wait, dearest, wait,’ Bernard said but when he approached her, she raised not just her arm but her fist to ward him off.

  ‘MY DADDY. WHERE IS MY DADDY?’

  ‘Kenny,’ Fiona said, quietly. ‘I think we’d better leave.’

  ‘No, I don’t want Rosie to think I…’

  ‘I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN, KENNETH MACGREGOR. I JUST WANT MY DADDY.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Aunt Janet, very clearly, ‘but your Daddy doesn’t want you.’

  * * *

  They rocked knee-to-knee in the front compartment of the tramcar and Kenny chain-smoked one cigarette after another as the almost empty vehicle swayed and rattled back towards the city. He had been shocked by Rosie’s rejection and the haste with which Bernard Peabody had bundled them out of the house. The engagement was clearly off and would never be on again. No remission was possible, no appeal.