The Bells of Bow

by Gilda O'Neill

Percy laughed. ‘So you enjoyed yerself then?’

  She laughed back. ‘Yeah, I had a really nice time, ta. It was just what I needed.’ She glanced sideways and shone the pale gleam of her torch at him. ‘And I don’t even care that Evie’s gonna be sulking when I get in.’

  ‘I’m glad yer happy.’ Percy put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Yer know I’ve always fancied yer, don’t yer, Babs?’

  Babs cuddled close to him. ‘Yeah, I know, Perce.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. Can I write to yer when I go back?’

  ‘If yer like.’

  Percy stopped walking and turned her to face him. ‘Don’t yer want me to, Babs?’

  ‘Course I do. I’d love to know how yer getting on, Perce, but I don’t want yer to get the wrong idea or nothing. It wouldn’t be fair.’ Babs bowed her head; even though it was pitch dark, she still couldn’t face him. ‘Yer know how fond I am of yer, I always have been, but I’ve always thought of yer as me mate, Perce.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, worse luck. Ne’mind. Perhaps next time I come back I’ll be a sergeant and yer’ll be right impressed with me, eh? Tell yer what, I’ll send yer a postcard letting yer know when I get me first medal!’

  Babs lifted her head. She concentrated hard, trying to make out his features in the darkness. Then she took his kind, trusting face between her hands and kissed him tenderly on the lips. ‘Yeah, Perce, you do that, and who knows, yer might turn me head yet.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened, Babs.’

  24

  Queenie sat in the stiflingly hot, grimy jumble of her front room studying one of the little black notebooks that she kept on her overcrowded table; the notebooks didn’t actually hold much useful information, but Queenie knew that they made her look efficient, impressed the punters, and this particular customer owed her plenty; she wanted him impressed. Albie served a similar purpose as he stood there, almost filling the doorway, cleaning his nails with his pocket knife while he leant casually against the chipped paint of the frame. She swept her eyes slowly up and down the nervous-looking specimen before her. He was a fair size but, compared to her Albie, she knew there wasn’t much chance that he’d be stupid enough to try and leave without paying his dues. But Queenie always thought it was a good idea to remind the punters who was in charge – and anyway, she enjoyed intimidating people.

  ‘Well, Ronnie boy,’ she said with a smile that cracked the thick layer of orange-tinged pancake make-up she applied at regular intervals throughout the day in the mistaken impression that it hid her wrinkles. ‘You got it all?’

  Ronnie nodded.

  Queenie held out her hand. The lines on her palm were ingrained with dirt. ‘Give it over then.’

  Ronnie dropped his head and glanced sideways at Albie. He had been thinking of maybe trying to sweet talk the old cow into giving him a bit more time, but with her bully boy of a son standing there like a bloody mountainside he knew he might as well save his breath. He reached inside his jacket and took out a wad of notes and began peeling them off slowly, one by one.

  Albie levered himself away from the door. ‘Good to see yer doing so well, Ron. I thought yer said something about times being hard.’

  Ronnie felt the sweat break out on his top lip as Albie moved towards him. But he couldn’t back away; he couldn’t do anything, not with Albie looming over him.

  Albie reached out and gently plucked the whole wad from Ronnie’s clammy hand. He kept his eyes on Ronnie but held up the money so Queenie could see. ‘That do yer, Mum?’

  ‘I reckon,’ Queenie said.

  ‘Good. Now, don’t be late with the next payment, will yer, Ron, ’cos yer know how I hate to see Mum upset and I know she’d be heartbroken if anything happened to them kids of your’n.’

  Queenie sniggered, and her huge bosom wobbled like a badly constructed trifle. ‘Yeah, heartbroken I’d be if anything happened to them little angels of your’n, and accidents do happen, Ron, don’t they?’

  Ronnie flashed a look of hatred at Queenie. Threaten his kids? How could she even call herself a woman? He felt like grabbing the old bastard by the throat and choking the life out of her. His breath was coming in short, fast bursts; he knew he stood no chance fighting her animal of a son but he could hurt him in other ways, could belittle him in front of his precious mother.

  Ron walked over to the door and stood there for a moment, silently judging whether he had given himself enough of a start to have it away on his toes before Albie recovered from what he was about to say. He went to speak but his mouth was so dry he had to swallow a couple of times before any sound came out at all.

  ‘Your missus is enjoying herself,’ he said eventually. He wiped the back of his hand across his parched lips, his heart racing so fast he thought his chest might explode.

  Albie cocked his head slightly and narrowed his eyes as though he was having trouble understanding.

  ‘Lovely voice, she’s got. All the geezers in the boozers round Whitechapel say so. She might have looked a bit the worse for wear when she left with a couple of fellers the other night. But she is one very popular lady. Yer must be very proud.’

  Queenie heaved herself to her feet. Grasping the sides of the table for support, she ignored the pile of papers that fluttered onto the already littered floor. ‘That blonde-haired little whore.’

  She had said it very quietly but her venom made the hairs on Ron’s neck prickle.

  She jabbed her pudgy, dirty finger at her son. ‘You gonna let her get away with making a show of yer? A show of yer family?’

  Ron took his opportunity and legged it like a greyhound out into the cool evening air. He couldn’t believe he’d just done that. He’d insulted Albie Denham’s old woman and had made him look a fool in front of the old lady. He’d have to go amongst the missing, that was for sure.

  There had been no major raids that night, just the odd shower of incendiaries, so all the pubs and illegal drinking clubs in Whitechapel had stayed open and remained busy. By the time Albie had dragged Chas in and out of just about every one of them, Albie could hardly stand. But Evie was nowhere to be found.

  Chas tried to persuade him to give it a rest for the night but Albie would hear none of it.

  ‘This is family business,’ he yelled, swiping the air as he stumbled towards the Riley. ‘Just drive me to her old man’s gaff and then piss off. I’m going to sort that rotten little trollop out if it’s the last thing I do.’

  Babs could hardly believe it when she heard the knocking – she had only just got Betty settled after her midnight feed – Evie was too selfish even to remember her key. As Babs pulled on her dressing gown and stuck her feet in her slippers, she was boiling. She had just about had enough of it. With a quick glimpse into the cot to check that Betty was all right, she padded down the stairs, ready to give Evie a piece of her mind.

  In her temper, Babs forgot that she shouldn’t turn on the light in the passage before pulling the street door back on its hinges. ‘Why don’t you shut up, yer’ll wake the ba—’ Her mouth fell open.

  ‘Chas? What the bloody hell do you want this time of night? It’s nearly one o’ clock in the morning.’

  Chas jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where Albie was dragging himself unsteadily from the car.

  ‘He’s come to see Evie,’ Chas said apologetically.

  A voice that Babs immediately recognised as the grating tones of Frankie Morgan hollered at her from across the street, ‘Put that bloody light out!’

  It was Albie who replied. ‘I’ll put your bloody lights out if yer don’t shut up.’

  ‘You what?’ Frankie was bristling. He adjusted his armband, picked up his pump and bucket and strode purposefully over to number six. But he pulled up short when he saw who had had the nerve to question his orders.

  ‘In fact,’ slurred Albie, gripping the car door, for support, ‘if yer don’t shut yer trap I’ll stick that stirrup pump of your’n right up your jacksy.’

  Chas was at a loss; s
till harbouring the hope that he might be in with some sort of a chance with Babs, he wanted to do something, anything to make him look as if he had at least some grasp of the situation.

  ‘Look, Al,’ he said, trying to sound friendly but firm, ‘why don’t we go and have a little drink somewhere?’

  Albie lurched forward and threw his full weight against Chas’s chest, sending him reeling backwards into the wall. ‘Why don’t you bugger off, yer useless cowson?’ Albie righted himself and then slumped back against the wall, staring sideways, glassy-eyed, at Babs as he gradually slipped down to the ground. ‘You ain’t Evie,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘No,’ said Babs. ‘Thank gawd.’

  She looked at Chas, who was still bent double from Albie’s winding, and then at Frankie, who was muttering to himself about authority and respect. What had she done to deserve this?

  ‘Now,’ she hissed, hands on hips, ‘I want yer to shut up, the lot of yer. The baby’s asleep up there, and so’s me dad. He’s been on solid shift and he needs his rest.’ She pointed at Frankie Morgan. ‘You,’ she said. ‘You’re so keen to do yer job.’ She jerked her head towards number five where a chink of light had appeared at the corner of the Clarkes’ blackout curtain. ‘Yer wanna go over and tell Alice that she should turn her lights out before she starts nosing at the neighbours.’

  Frankie was more than glad to cross the street to number five; anything to get away from Albie Denham. Alice might be a holy terror but at least he stood a reasonable chance of coming out alive if he had a set to with her.

  Then Babs nodded to Chas. ‘And you, you can get him back in that motor car of his and get him out of here. Out of my sight.’

  Chas shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, girl, I’d love to do it for yer, but I can’t. Yer know what he’s like usually, but he goes completely barmy when he’s been drinking like this. He’d kill me stone dead in the morning.’

  Babs nodded. ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’ She rolled up the sleeves of her dressing gown. ‘Help me in with him, Chas, but then you’ll have to clear off.’ She grasped Albie by the sleeve and started pulling. ‘Be quiet,’ she warned Chas. ‘And watch yer don’t scratch that pram.’

  As they half dragged and half marched Albie bodily along the passage, Flash shot out of the kitchen and started snapping and growling at him.

  ‘They’ve even turned the bloody dog against me,’ groaned Albie, leaning his head on Chas’s shoulder.

  Babs made sure that Albie was balanced against Chas and then grabbed Flash by the collar and shoved her into the front room, pulling the door firmly shut.

  ‘Babs?’ The voice came from the top of the back bedroom.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘It’s all right, Dad,’ she called up to him, keeping her voice as steady as she could. ‘It’s only Frankie Morgan going on about the blackout again. He’s set the dog off, that’s all.’

  She waited, listening for the familiar creak of the bed springs from her dad’s bedroom as Georgie settled himself back to sleep.

  ‘Right, Chas, along here to the kitchen.’

  Despite her anger, Babs couldn’t help but be impressed as Chas hoisted Albie single-handedly into the carver chair.

  ‘Can I do anything else?’ he asked. His face was red from exertion and as eager as a little boy’s.

  Babs shook her head. ‘Just take the car and clear off, Chas. He’ll be in no fit state to drive the thing till the morning and I want him gone long before then.’

  ‘Can’t I wait with him?’

  ‘No. There’s been enough of a performance here tonight as it is. I don’t want him starting on you for gawd knows what as soon as he starts sobering up.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t take him with me.’ Chas dropped his head and walked out of the kitchen.

  ‘Chas. Wait.’

  Chas spun round. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate it. You know.’

  Chas grinned. ‘Any time, darling. Just wish I could do more.’

  If he wasn’t Albie’s stooge he might be a halfway decent bloke, she thought sadly as she closed the door behind him. Albie Denham had a lot to answer for. But worrying about Chas definitely wasn’t at the top of her list, not for now anyway. What she had to worry about was getting Albie sober enough to talk some sense into him, tell him some sort of a tale and get him out of the house and into a cab before Evie came back.

  ‘Come on, Albie, drink it.’ Babs held another cup of tea to his lips as though he were an invalid.

  ‘Don’t want any more,’ Albie complained, swatting it away. ‘I wanna piss.’

  He lurched forward out of the chair and tried to focus on the back door. Babs nipped round him and hurriedly unlocked it. He had had four cups of tea; the last thing she needed was for him to wet himself.

  Albie stumbled out into the yard and into the lavatory. The cold air hit him and rapidly took effect: his head swam and he vomited violently.

  While he was outside, Babs put the kettle on again and nervously looked up at the clock. Twenty to two. She could only hope that Evie wouldn’t be back until the morning.

  By the time Albie eventually came back into the kitchen, it was nearly two o’clock. He was feeling like death but he was almost sober.

  He lowered himself gingerly into the carver chair and shakily accepted the tea that Babs handed to him.

  ‘Where is she?’ he asked, looking at Babs over the brim of the cup.

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘I didn’t ask that.’

  Babs leant back against the draining board and shrugged. ‘Look, this is nothing to do with me. She’s not here. That’s all I know.’

  Albie didn’t look as though he thought that was a satisfactory answer either.

  ‘Look, Albie, don’t start nothing. The baby’s asleep and I don’t want her upset, do you understand me?’

  Albie rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Yer’ve got guts. I like that in a bird.’ He moved towards her.

  ‘So’s Evie,’ Babs said warily.

  ‘Yeah, but she’s only interested in herself, ain’t she? You’re speaking up for the nipper. That’s what I like. Shows you ain’t a selfish bitch like her.’

  Babs tried to flatten herself as he pinned her against the sink.

  Albie stroked his finger slowly down her cheek. His hand reeked with the sour taint of vomit.

  ‘Yer know, things would have worked out different if Evie had been more like you, Babs.’ He lowered his head and lifted her chin with his finger. He stared directly into her eyes. ‘I’ve always thought you was the one I should have married.’ He was suddenly all over her, pressing hard against her, rubbing his hands roughly over her breasts and forcing her lips open with his tongue.

  Babs gagged. The taste of sick on his breath was even worse than the stench on his hands. She struggled and kicked, trying to escape his touch and his kisses, trying to force him off her, trying to break free.

  ‘You bastard! You just wait, you no good stinking bastard!’ Evie’s incensed and only partly coherent screams rang through the kitchen. It wasn’t just her yelling that made her words unclear; from the look of her, all flushed and dishevelled, she had been drinking as well.

  Albie sprang away from Babs as though someone had thrown a switch.

  Babs blundered her way out into the yard, threw her head back and took great gulping lungfuls of air trying to get the stench of Albie out of her mouth and her nostrils.

  Inside the kitchen, Evie was pummelling her fists into Albie’s chest, sobbing over and over again, ‘Bastard. You bastard.’

  Albie grabbed hold of a handful of the blonde hair he had once admired so much and pulled her head up so she had to face him.

  His face was contorted with contempt. ‘You stupid slut,’ he sneered and pushed her off him.

  Evie stumbled backwards and went crashing into the kitchen table but she felt no pain. And she no longer felt drunk. She knew what she had to do. Albie faced the sink and turned on the tap; he bent forwa
rd, and scooped handfuls of the icy water over his face and neck, splashing it all over the floor. She kept her eyes fixed on him while she reached one hand behind her. There it was. The bread knife.

  ‘Albie!’ she screeched. ‘Look at me, you bastard.’

  As he spun round, he lost his footing on the wet floor and fell to his knees. With the pointed blade raised above her head, Evie launched herself at him with an animal-like howl of rage. She threw herself across his back, grabbed a handful of his hair in her left hand and with her right held the knife to his throat.

  ‘I’ll show you, pulling hair. You’ve had it now.’

  Out in the yard, Babs could hear them fighting. She wanted to go in and do something but she was shaking all over and felt as if she were rooted to the spot by legs made of lead. But the moment she heard Betty’s screams, she found the energy to shift herself and she burst in the kitchen ready to protect her little niece against anything and anyone.

  She took in the scene in a single, horrified glance: Georgie was standing in the doorway, dressed only in his vest and underpants; in his arms he held Betty who had worked herself up into a red-faced rage. The expression on Georgie’s face as he looked down at Evie straddling Albie’s back and holding the bread knife at his throat, was one of disbelieving but mounting fury.

  ‘If you’ve touched either of my girls …’ Georgie’s breath was coming in short, hard gasps.

  Even with a knife at his throat, Albie was sneering and mouthy. ‘What’ll you do about it, yer pathetic old lush?’

  ‘I’ll show yer, shall I?’ Georgie shoved Betty into Babs’s arms.

  ‘Shut up!’ Babs shouted, putting herself between the two men. ‘All of you. Can’t yer see what yer doing to the baby?’

  Georgie took a step back, he opened and closed his fists, barely able to contain himself.

  ‘Now, please, be quiet. All of yer.’ She held Betty over her shoulder and gently patted her back, trying to calm her. ‘Evie, get up.’

  She shook her head. Her hair was damp with sweat.

  ‘I mean it, Evie. Yer’ve got to. Can’t yer see what he’s doing to yer?’