by Carol Rivers
Luis Mendoza finally collapsed, though not as spectacularly as was expected. He lay full length in the yard, his head propped by a tyre, his mouth open and his fingers entwined across his chest. Benny sobered up, drowned in tea by Anita and lectured by his mother. Their two boys and the Travers girls were still dancing and smooching in the front room.
Rose accepted her third glass of sherry at eleven o’clock as Matthew slept through all the racket. The children played in Will’s tent and spied on the grown-ups over the fence.
By midnight, only the youngsters were still on their feet. Rose, Anita and Benny sat in the yard, reminiscing and singing poignant songs: ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, ‘We’ll Meet Again’, ‘A Nightingale Sang’ and ‘Lili Marlene’, all accompanied by Luis Mendoza’s rhythmic snoring. They talked of the war days and the people they had known and catchphrases that still stuck in their heads ten years down the line.
‘Lend a Hand on the Land.’
‘Keep the Flag Flying.’
‘Your Country Needs You.’
‘Dig for Victory.’
‘Adolf in Blunderland,’ shouted Luis and everyone laughed.
At midnight, they looked up into a dazzling sky and Rose inhaled the sweet air, thinking of Eddie. She’d missed him, but she’d let down her hair and forgotten her troubles for the time being. The brown car and Eddie’s debt and the shoebox, even the back-breaking hours in Kirkwood’s canteen were a distant memory. She had almost forgotten her sister too, until she peered over the Anderson fence and into her own kitchen window.
A dim light burned there and two figures were silhouetted in the pale light. Rose smiled; if Em was wise, she’d grab Bobby Morton whilst she had the chance. He was a good man and patient too. But he wouldn’t wait forever.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rose carefully examined the saucepans and utensils returned to the cupboards at the end of the day. After which she would walk slowly past the worktops, running her fingers along their edges to check for grease.
Though she no longer sweated at the big double sink she couldn’t break the habit formed over the last five months. A habit that gained her favour with Gwen House, allowing the supervisor a swift departure.
Rose loved these last few moments before she left for home. There was something special about the kitchen at the end of a busy day when all the staff had gone. After folding her overall into a locker, she would cast her eye over the clean surfaces and tiled floors for the last time and, when satisfied, exit by the back door, quietly closing it, as if leaving a sleeping child.
The bike shed was deserted when she left; saucer-sized pools of dog-ends swam in the gutters fuelled by a leaking overflow pipe from the outside wall. These were often accompanied by sweet wrappers or bus tickets and would remain there until George, the caretaker, pushed his broom along the concrete path, adding his own spent Woodbine to the soggy piles.
Tonight, at five-thirty on a cheerful Thursday, Rose thought the September evening could have been spring. The air was fruity and ripe and birds were singing from the smoke-soiled rooftops and the factory eaves. Gulls called noisily, searching for an uncovered dustbin that would provide supper. A few late sirens wailed into the mellow autumn air. Tomorrow was Friday and the weekend approached!
Rose always enjoyed her bike ride home. She took a blouse and trousers to work into which she was now changed and at the end of the day, when she could still smell the fried fish or the onions in her long hair, the breeze blew it out as if by magic. The unflattering round hats that all kitchen employees were required to wear did little to keep out the smells that clung stubbornly to skin, hair and clothes.
More often than not throughout the summer a kind, southerly breeze had almost blown her home. Her journey took less than twenty minutes, but on sunny days she cheated, cycling a longer route, past the Mudchute and up East Ferry Road, adding another glorious five minutes of fresh summer air.
‘T’ra, Rose!’ A group of girls from the flourmill waved as she pushed her bike on to the pavement. They passed her most evenings, their faces white but smiling and their footsteps light, eager to be home. She waved back as a lorry passed and the driver hooted. The girls shrieked with laughter and waved, disappearing noisily along the dock road.
There were kids playing out in every street as Rose cycled home. Glossy marbles were rolling in the gutters or along the straighter paths. An apple box had been converted to wickets and erected in the middle of one road where the kids played rounders. Another group of boys and girls were playing a game with cherry stones throwing them through a board with notches cut out of its edge.
She knew Donnie and Marlene would be eager to go out and play in the last hour of light. Matthew was nearly eight months old now and occupied himself in his playpen, mostly surrounded by his toys or watching the older children through the gaily coloured wooden bars. Rose couldn’t wait to cuddle him. He was a beautiful baby, with thick black hair just like Eddie’s, and eyes that were as big as saucers. She’d sent Eddie a photograph of all the children, including Matthew, that Alan had taken with his box camera one day in the summer. They had all shouted cheese and collapsed into giggles, luckily after the picture was taken.
Rose was just imagining how wonderful it would be when Eddie could hold his son in his arms when she was aware of a movement beside her. She slowed her speed and steered towards the pavement in order to let the vehicle pass.
But it didn’t. Instead it remained where it was. She increased her speed, turning left instead of right, taking a direction she hadn’t intended. Still, she could do a complete circle and turn left again and that was what she was about to do when a horse and cart blocked her way. She was forced to take a right turn and then, to her annoyance, the vehicle crept up slowly again beside her.
Rose glanced sideways, an annoyed expression on her face. There was plenty of room to pass. She caught a glimpse of the vehicle, a shiny brown wing. Her heart leapt into her throat; she would recognize the car anywhere.
She pedalled faster, but the car matched her pace. The low growl of its engine sounded threatening. What was she to do? Why had she come this way? There was the dock to the right of her and wasteland ahead. Heaps of debris alternated with commercial buildings, most of them in a state of disrepair.
She had taken the wrong turning. She couldn’t get away from the car. It was like a shadow, matching her speed. At the end of the street, she wanted to stop to get her bearings. But she couldn’t; she was too frightened. This area was deserted, just a few men walking not far away towards the docks. But she couldn’t turn towards them. The car was blocking her way. Every time she slowed, it slowed. Every time she increased her pace, it went faster.
Where could she go? The men had gone now, the dismal street narrowed to a lane, where abandoned buildings leaned precariously over the road. This area of the docks had fallen into disrepair and was only used by prostitutes who plied their trade for the benefit of the foreign seamen who frequented the waterfront pubs.
She began to panic, steering the bike haphazardly as she remembered the last time she had seen this car. It had been coming straight for her. If Benny hadn’t rugby tackled her she wouldn’t be alive today.
Rose pedalled until the sweat ran down her back and in between her breasts. The car kept up its vigil, slowly squashing her against the wall. She was trapped; they intended to crush her!
Then with a rush of speed it swept in front of her. Too late she applied the brakes, which had never been very good since the day she first rode it. The worn rubbers hissed against metal but the bike didn’t stop.
Rose only released the handlebars when the front wheel buckled against the car door. Her arm went up to cover her face and she was thrown forward. A moment later she was lying on the ground with all the wind knocked out of her.
‘Where am I?’ Rose couldn’t see a thing. Someone had blindfolded her, their clumsy hands catching her hair as they did so. There was a strange musty smell in the air, the same sm
ell of bricks and mortar that lingered across the debris in Ruby Street.
She didn’t know where she was, only that she’d been bundled into the car and was now bound to a chair. The ropes were hurting her wrists and her arms were strained at an unnatural angle behind her back. She couldn’t move her legs either, they were locked together and she guessed her ankles were tied with the same strong rope. She was shaking so much she couldn’t decide whether her teeth were chattering or whether it was an external sound. But even if she knew that, the thumping of her heart was so loud it would have drowned out any other noise.
‘So, we meet at last.’ The high, nasal twang that sounded slightly effeminate sent shivers down her spine.
‘Who are you?’ Rose asked in a small voice.
‘I am Norman Payne, my dear, your friend and benefactor. Or to be more accurate, the goose that laid your family’s golden egg.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Rose stared into the darkness, trying to sense where the voice had come from.
‘Come now, I’m sure your husband has told you all about me.’ She flinched as someone stroked her neck and then her arm. ‘How slender and smooth these pretty fingers look, despite the hard work they’ve seen. It must be a great hardship, toiling long hours in a hot kitchen? Not like the old days, eh? Just you and your pretty little girls at home playing Mummies and Daddies.’
Another cold shiver went down her back as she realized this man knew all about her, even the fact that she now worked at Kirkwood’s. ‘L . . . let me go,’ she stammered jerking her head right and left as she heard soft breathing in her ear. ‘My sister will call the police,’ she added bravely, wriggling again, but the ropes twisted painfully against her skin.
‘The police?’ His tone was amused. ‘Now, what good would they do you? Eddie’s already doing time for a crime he didn’t commit.’
Rose gasped. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘I know everything,’ he replied sharply.
‘It was you,’ Rose accused angrily, ‘who framed Eddie. You who broke into our home and took all his savings!’
‘Savings? Ha! That money was mine, my dear, every penny of it. Your husband owes me four times that amount.’
Rose gasped incredulously. ‘I don’t believe you. Eddie would never get into debt like that.’
‘Then prepare yourself for a shock, young woman. He signed on the dotted line many times and I’ve the papers to prove it. Your husband has gambled away his life – and yours. Why, you could say he’s sold me his soul!’
Rose felt the tears prick in the corners of her eyes. Was he telling her the truth? Had Eddie really got himself into so much trouble?
‘Still, you’ve a lot to be grateful for,’ Payne said slyly. ‘Under the circumstances he’s a lucky man. The police bungled even the simplest of tasks, not making the assault stick. It’s no wonder that crime is on the increase if they fall over their feet in such small matters.’
‘You mean that Inspector Williams was . . . is—’
‘Corrupt, dear, as bent as a three-piece walking stick.’ He laughed coarsely. ‘Inspector Williams has an appreciation of the finer things in life second only to your other half, I have to say. Fortunately, most people have a price, luvvie, including you.’
‘You’re wrong. I’d never lift a finger to help you.’
‘Oh, think again, Mrs W, think again. What price do you put on the head of that beautiful child sitting in his pram at home? Nice little lad, the spit of his father. And your two girls, what about them? Little beauties they are too.’
‘If you ever went near them—’
‘What would you do?’ Payne interrupted in his sing-song voice. ‘Charge at me with a broom and a bucket?’
‘You wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t dare—’
‘Oh, but I would, my dear, I most certainly would. You see, I can do anything I like. Anything.’
Rose felt her stomach heave as his hand moved slowly down to her breast. She bit her lip to prevent herself from screaming as the hot, heavy fingers roughly pulled open her blouse.
‘Don’t – please don’t!’ Rose hated herself for being such a coward as tears welled in her eyes. ‘What do you want?’ she pleaded. ‘Tell me what you want.’
‘Listen and listen carefully.’ Rose shuddered as his fingers caressed her. ‘Your husband owes me and I want a result. Not just money, dear girl, but gratitude. After all, you’ve had a taste of the good life, you and your precious kids.’
‘Leave us alone,’ Rose managed to whisper. ‘Eddie’s not a thief. He doesn’t deserve what happened to him. And if he owes you money, then you’ll get it back.’
Payne cackled, his smoky breath on her face. ‘How touching. A wife defending her husband to the last. I’m sorry to say though, I haven’t the same confidence in your old man as you seem to have.’
Rose wanted to scream but she had to bear it. Eddie wasn’t around to help. No one was. She was completely at the mercy of this abominable man. How could Eddie have ever got mixed up with the likes of him?
‘Now,’ the voice continued as he stroked her, ‘I think we both agree your husband needs to be reminded of his duty towards me, his long-suffering friend and you, his family.’
‘That’s blackmail,’ Rose whimpered. ‘You’re trying to make him do something dreadful so that he’ll never be out of your power.’
‘Blackmail is an ugly word from such lovely lips,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Let’s just call it business, shall we?’
Rose pursed her lips. ‘I’d rather he stay in prison forever than commit crimes for someone like you!’
There was a catch of sharp breath and the hand dragged away from her breast to tighten around her throat. ‘Listen, you stupid girl, your husband has no choice. I own you. Your whole life is mine. That’s the way it works, Mrs W. And this is the message I want you to give him.’ Two hands slid around her throat. She coughed as the pressure tightened. ‘What was that, my dear?’
Rose coughed again trying to regain her breath. What was he going to do now? Was he going to kill her?
The blow sent her reeling and the chair that she was sitting on rocked. Another blow followed and her scream died as the pain filled every corner of her head. She tried to catch her breath, but she’d bitten her tongue and could taste the blood on it.
‘It doesn’t feel so good, does it, alone and in the darkness?’
Her eyes were wide with terror under the blindfold.
‘No one to help you, no one. You must be very frightened, very frightened indeed.’
Rose sobbed then, her courage failing her as the tears began to trickle down her cheeks. The pain was like a helmet, crushing her face and jaw. She heard a kind of shuffling. Was he close? Were there others watching her humiliation?
She didn’t have the power to scream again when he pulled her head back by a fistful of her hair. All she could do was to ask God for it to be quick, to make her brave and keep her alive at the end of it.
‘Mrs Weaver, Mrs Weaver!’
Rose heard someone calling her name. They sounded very far off at first and then suddenly, as she tried to open her eyes, they could have been standing right beside her as the voice boomed in her ears like Big Ben.
‘Wh . . . who is it?’ Her head felt sore and heavy. She rubbed her jaw and felt the congealed blood at the corner of her mouth. It peeled off under her fingers and she winced.
‘It’s me. Vivien Keene.’
Rose found herself half lying and half sitting on the playground bench. Miss Keene’s brow creased as she said, ‘Oh, Mrs Weaver, have you had an accident?’
Rose didn’t know what else to do except nod. Her jaw was throbbing and her head felt twice its size.
‘Your bike is ruined. Did someone drive over it?’
Rose looked down at the remains of her bike. Both wheels were buckled and the chain was twisted around the pedals. How had she and the bike got here?
‘I thought you were asleep,
’ Miss Keene continued worriedly. ‘But I couldn’t understand why. Then it struck me you must have been knocked off your bike and come into the playground to recover. I hope you aren’t suffering from concussion.’
With the help of the young woman, Rose sat up. She ached from head to toe and her wrists were stinging painfully. She looked down. There were red marks across them and suddenly everything tumbled back. She looked around the playground and back into Vivien Keene’s concerned face.
‘I’m all right.’
‘You don’t look it.’
‘I . . . I’m just winded.’
‘What happened?’
Rose peered into the twilight mist that was creeping across St Mary’s school and covering the empty expanse of playground. How long had she been unconscious?
‘My dear, you look terrible,’ Miss Keene said again.
‘I was just getting my breath back . . .’
‘Was it a car that hit you?’
Rose nodded, her eyes going down to her blouse as she thought of those awful hands touching her so intimately, of the words Norman Payne had whispered in her ear. And those blows that had racked her body with pain!
‘You must tell the police, but first I’ll take you to hospital.’
‘No.’ Rose tried to stand up, then fell down again. She had no strength in her legs.
‘You look dreadful, Mrs Weaver. You must see a doctor.’
‘I must get back to the children.’
‘But I really do think—’
Rose dragged herself up unsteadily. ‘Really, I’m just bruised. The bike took the worst of it.’
‘I can’t believe someone would leave you like this! It was a good job I came back to collect some homework I’d forgotten.’
‘What time is it?’ Rose asked.
Miss Keene glanced at her watch. ‘Nearly quarter to eight.’
‘Oh no! I must get home,’ Rose cried although she had no idea how she would manage to walk there.
