The Great Betrayal

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘He’s not! Get your foot out of the door!’

  ‘What if I won’t?’

  He kicked it half-heartedly.

  ‘Then where is he?’

  Sidney shrugged. ‘I’m his brother, not his bloomin’ keeper!’

  Before he realized what she was about, she thrust herself past him and shouted up the stairs: ‘Oi! Don! Get yourself down ’ere, toot sweet!’

  ‘Toot sweet?’

  ‘French, to you, Sid! Means “get a move on”!’ She grinned.

  Sidney wavered. The grin made her look sixteen instead of twenty. ‘Who are you kidding!’ He leaned back against the door jamb, yawned, scratched his head and felt suddenly confident that the day was going to be a good one. Not that he’d see much of it. He would idle his way through at least half of it before setting out in search of the bookie’s runner, who would take his bet with his usual lack of interest. Then it was round to the Hare and Hounds for a drop of ale.

  Dolly cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled, ‘Donald John Wickham! It’s me, Dolly! Your one true love!’

  Sidney put a hand to his eyes, wincing at the noise. ‘Must you?’ he asked, not expecting an answer. ‘He’s not back. I told you that. When he does get back I’ll tell him you—’

  ‘He calls me that – his one true love! And dearest and sweet’eart!’

  ‘And you fell for it.’ He glanced at her swelling belly.

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘More fool you.’

  But she was already hurrying up the bare stairs, her skirt clutched in one hand, and he heard her open and shut the doors along the landing. ‘If you’re hiding, Don . . .’

  Sidney muttered, ‘He’s not hiding, you silly crumpet! He’s not back yet.’ Women! What was it about his brother that he always got the best-looking women – without even trying?

  Dolly clattered down the stairs, her face flushed, but whether with anger or disappointment he could not say. ‘Tell him I’ll be by on my way home – and God ’elp ’im if he’s not back!’ She threw him a mocking kiss and was away.

  For someone in her state – six months gone – she had a sight too much energy, he reflected. Then he grinned. His brother certainly could pick ’em!

  The Pig and Whistle was the favourite haunt of many of the labourers around St Katharine’s Dock, and that was where Donald Wickham expected to find Willis Burke, known as ‘the reverend’ to his mates. Willis Burke had originally come from a nice God-fearing family, who’d doted on their only son, a gentle child with soft brown hair, large grey eyes, a sweet nature and a willingness to attend Sunday school. Unfortunately, Willis had cut himself adrift when they’d decided he would make a wonderful ‘man of the cloth’. To please them, he had at first agreed to attend St Joseph’s College, to study Religious History and Divinity with the intention of entering the church. He had soon realized, however, that he was not the man they thought he was and had made a big mistake.

  Firstly, he had struggled with the syllabus, and secondly, he had found himself totally uninterested. He had decided that pleasing his family was not the way he needed to go so, reluctantly, he had broken his parents’ hearts, left home and had been immediately drawn into the shifting sands that made up a large part of London’s casual workforce.

  Seven years after abandoning his original plan and several more plans, he found himself existing on casual employment in and around the docks, but the peanuts he earned currently as a nightwatchman in a warehouse were swollen by what he liked to see as his ‘little sideline’.

  When Don caught up with him in the Pig and Whistle he was sipping a pint of ale and looking forward to his bed.

  As Don sat down beside him, Burke said, ‘Whatever it is, the answer’s no!’ but he reached for the second pint that Don carried, which he guessed was for him and was obviously meant as a sweetener. What did the man want now, he wondered.

  Don said, ‘I think you’re getting uglier, Reverend, or is it the light?’

  ‘I work at it! What’s your excuse?’

  Around them the noise blossomed suddenly as a man came into the bar with a dog which was immediately challenged by the resident mongrel. Heads turned to watch the fight, and as the dogs’ scrabbling paws flicked up dirty sawdust, the customers took sides and began to cheer on their favourites. The barman ignored the rumpus, which ended abruptly when the intruder slipped his collar and both dogs tumbled into the street and nearly upturned a costermonger’s barrow loaded with muddy potatoes.

  Don lowered his voice. ‘As I was saying, Reverend, I’ve got a nice little proposition for you.’ He rubbed finger and thumb together. ‘Bit of extra cash. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘The answer’s no, and don’t keep calling me “reverend”. I keep telling everyone – I’ve given all that up. You know I have.’

  ‘I know you think you have, and we admire you for it. You did the right thing. Look at you now – a wonderful job, generous pay and a charming little attic room where you can sleep all day!’ He drank deeply.

  The sarcasm was not lost on Burke. Bright enough to know that he was being mocked, he scowled. ‘For God’s sake! I don’t do that stuff any more. I don’t know why people keep asking me. Look what it got me before. Three months in Pentonville for fraud. A hellhole if ever there was one!’ His voice was rich with indignation, but a small part of him was sorely tempted. If truth were told, Willis loved dressing up as a ‘reverend’. He felt it had once been a glorious future, which had been snatched away from him in a moment of his own youthful weakness. If only his parents had insisted. If only his tutors had begged him not to give up the Lord’s work . . .

  Tutting, Don shook his head. ‘Prison. That was disgraceful, that was! Shocking! A true miscarriage of justice . . . Come on, Reverend. Drink up. You’ve time for one more.’

  ‘Never turn down a drink’ was one of Burke’s mottoes, so he obligingly emptied his tankard and Don caught the barmaid’s eye as she waltzed past.

  ‘Same again, Prue, my lovely!’

  ‘It’s Sue!’ But she fluttered her lashes at him.

  ‘Sue or Prue – you’re just as pretty!’ He turned his attention back to Burke and the matter in hand. ‘There’s this young lady . . .’ he began.

  ‘God Almighty!’ Burke groaned. ‘What did I just say? You got cloth ears or what?’

  ‘You said you’ve given up doing all that stuff . . . but I’m a mate, and there’s a sweet young lady in trouble – if you know what I mean – and a tenner in it for you. Ten bob! Ten shillings. She’s in the family way, and I just want to do the right thing by her. You know how it is. You’re a man of the world, Reverend, and you’re not stupid enough to turn your back on ten shillings.’

  Burke was still shaking his head when the next round appeared, but he snatched at his pint before Don could change his mind. He was still telling himself that this time he meant ‘no’. The time in prison had taught him a severe lesson. He was determined not to repeat past mistakes, and that meant resisting the wiles of men like Don Wickham . . . but he owed four weeks’ rent, and it would make sense financially to say yes.

  Don leaned forward and raised his ale in a sign of celebration. ‘Cheers and down the hatch!’ he said. ‘You’ll be making a young lady very happy.’

  Burke made up his mind. He’d do it, but he’d make it worth his while. ‘I haven’t said I’ll do it, and I won’t do it!’ he said firmly. ‘Get it into your head, will you? I’m not doing that fake religious stuff any more. I don’t want to get into trouble again. The screws said, “You’ll be back!” and I said “Never, on my mother’s grave!” and they . . .’

  ‘But you will do it.’ Don grinned at him and leaned across confidingly. ‘Tell you what, Reverend, because it’s you, and you certainly aren’t the best-paid nightwatchman in London, I’ll double it. How’s that?’

  ‘Double it?’ Burke nearly choked on his ale.

  ‘Twenty shillings!’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Come on, Re
verend. You could pay off the rent you owe and . . . and get your stuff out of hock.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ He looked at Don suspiciously. ‘How d’you know about all that?’

  ‘Because everyone’s in the same boat! Everyone’s in hock, and everyone owes the landlord.’

  ‘I bet you don’t.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. But if I’m not in debt it’s because I use this!’ He tapped his head. ‘So what d’you say, eh? You’d be a fool to say “no”, and you aren’t a fool, are you?’

  Knowing Wickham, Burke now suspected that the man had halved his offer first time round . . . but so what? He would do it – this one last time and never again. ‘Throw in a pork pie and it’s a deal!’ he offered. ‘But you’ll have to keep it under your hat! I’m not going back inside for a measly twenty shillings.’

  ‘Not a word of it will ever pass my lips!’ Don thrust out his hand. ‘Shake on it, Reverend. It’s a deal.’

  That same afternoon, on her way home from shopping, Lydia decided to try her father with the photographs. Seeing the members of the family in black and white might jog his memory and make him feel more confident. She was hoping that being less vague and more ‘in control’ might restore some of the good humour she recalled from times past. Dour he certainly was and often had been, but her mother had explained that some people did not know how to be happy. At least Lydia knew that he had once loved her.

  She found him in the potting shed, scraping soil from a stack of flower pots, and coaxed him back into the house with the promise of a pot of tea and biscuits.

  When she judged the time to be right, she said, ‘Shall we look at the photographs, Adam? You like that, don’t you?’

  Delighted, he abandoned his colouring book and hurried importantly to the sideboard to collect the album.

  Lydia said, ‘If we can’t remember all the names, Grandpapa will have to help us.’

  The boy settled beside her on the sofa, and Lydia was pleased to see her father edge his chair a little closer to them.

  ‘Here we go!’ said Lydia, opening the album to reveal the first photograph. ‘Now who are these people, Adam?’

  He pointed with a stubby finger. ‘That’s Grandpapa, and that’s Grandmama but now she’s gone to heaven.’

  Lydia said, ‘Let’s ask Grandpapa if you are right,’ and looked at him enquiringly.

  With feigned reluctance he leaned closer and nodded. ‘That’s me and . . .’ He closed his eyes. ‘I ought to know her name,’ he muttered. It’s . . . It’s . . . Estelle?’

  Adam looked at his mother for approval.

  ‘Nearly right,’ she told them. ‘Grandmama’s name was Elspeth.’

  ‘Elspeth?’ George repeated. ‘But that’s what I said. Elspeth. Yes. Of course it was. Taken two months after our marriage.’

  ‘Well done!’ said Lydia, and Adam, taking his cue, clapped his hands.

  She turned the page to a formal portrait of herself and her brother, taken on Robert’s eleventh birthday. ‘And these two children are . . .?’

  George leaned closer, frowning. ‘So that’s where he got to,’ he said, speaking to himself. ‘Robert! Yes, of course. That’s Robert. He’s in the album.’ He glanced up at his daughter. ‘Where did he get to? I never see him these days.’

  Adam said eagerly, ‘He was my uncle, but he was only little in the picture, and then he was knocked down by a big, big horse and . . .’

  George gave a strangled cry and struggled to his feet. ‘That’s enough, young Adam,’ he said harshly. ‘You never knew him like I did! He was a wonderful boy. Wonderful, d’you hear me? Something about a horse . . .? Yes, that was it. Knocked down in his prime! Such a waste.’ His face crumpled.

  Dismayed, Lydia closed the album with a snap and whispered to Adam to replace it in the sideboard. She turned to her father and said gently, ‘Robert had a happy life, Father. We shouldn’t mourn him. He wouldn’t wish it. He—’

  George steadied himself with one hand on the mantelpiece and glared at his daughter. ‘Don’t try to tell me he’s gone. I know better. He’s . . . he’s around. You’ll see . . . Robert. Yes, that’s it.’

  Sensing the change of atmosphere, Adam closed the sideboard door and looked towards his mother for reassurance.

  She said, ‘Father, you have a wonderful grandson! If you would only take the time to get to know him, Adam would . . .’

  He waved the suggestion away with a sweep of his free hand. ‘His father’s a spy!’ he said. ‘Don’t try to fool me.’

  She bit back a reproach, telling herself that he scarcely knew what he was saying and was not to blame for his cruel outburst. As he wandered out into the passage, still mumbling angrily to himself, Lydia, with tears in her eyes, swept Adam into her arms and hugged him.

  Two

  The next morning the postman brought a letter from Lydia’s husband, and she rushed upstairs to read it in private. Later she would read carefully selected passages to her son and father. Seating herself by the window, she kissed the envelope, tore it open and drew out the enclosed letter.

  ‘Only two sheets!’ she murmured, disappointed, but she then reminded herself that two pages were better than none at all and that John was a very busy man.

  My dearest Liddy. At last I can snatch a few moments to write to you. I have been desperately busy, but I console myself that you are a wonderfully understanding wife and I am a lucky man.

  ‘A wonderfully understanding wife!’ she echoed, drawing a little comfort from the compliment.

  Thank you so much for your letters, which are always a source of joy to me when I find time to return to the office before dashing off again. Please thank Adam for the picture he sent of a train engine. Maybe he will grow up to be a train driver. Stranger things have happened.

  Lydia smiled. Her son’s attempt had consisted of a very small yellow engine surrounded by billowing blue smoke.

  Now that I am back in London I can finish the business and hurry home. This should reach you on Friday and I expect to be arriving on your doorstep soon after – by Monday, I hope. What a lot of ‘catching up’ we shall have to do, my darling. You cannot know how much I miss you when we are apart. And little Adam will be growing fast. Give him a kiss from me and tell him I shall bring him a present if he has been a good boy . . .

  Lydia let out a deep sigh of contentment. He was coming home and he loved her and was anxious to see his son. What more could she ask of him, she wondered happily.

  I do hope your father is no worse. We both know he is not to blame but you must find him difficult, dearest, and no doubt he will grow worse, but if we are ever rich you shall have a nurse to help you care for him.

  No more now, my dearest Lydia. Fondest love from your loving husband John.

  Lydia folded the letter and pressed it to her heart. Not long to wait, she told herself, and their little family would be complete again.

  A few moments later she went downstairs, where Adam was crawling along the floor, pushing a painted wooden boat, and her father was reading The Times. The latter glanced up as she came in, his face alight with interest, and she was reminded how he used to look when he was younger, before the deterioration had set in.

  ‘Would you credit it?’ he demanded. ‘Another armed robbery – this time at Glazers in Oxford Street. Jewellery valued at over a thousand pounds!’ He shook his head. ‘Over a thousand pounds! The audacity of it. The sheer effrontery of the thieves. They do say the police have a lead, but then they always say that.’

  Lydia raised her eyebrows. ‘Do they think it’s the same gang?’

  He consulted the article. ‘Yes. Same modus operandi. I’d like to get my hands on the blighters. There were three men: one to drive the getaway car, one to hold up the staff at gunpoint and one to grab the stuff. They didn’t shoot anyone this time, but they used a gun to knock one of the customers to the ground and he’s in a poor way in hospital with a fractured skull.’

  Adam looked up. ‘What is a hospital?
’

  His grandpapa smiled. ‘A place where you go if you’re ill.’

  The boy turned to Lydia.

  She said, ‘You go to stay there in a cosy little bed and the doctors and nurses make you better again.’

  ‘If you’re lucky!’ George growled.

  Lydia gave her father a warning look, then remembered her letter from John. As soon as she began to read an edited version for her son’s sake, her father stood up and threw down his newspaper. ‘I can’t listen to this nonsense,’ he told her. ‘Can’t believe a word he says! Never could. I warned you.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she snapped, her joy evaporating. ‘Please don’t start that again, Father.’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘Poor John has done nothing to deserve your constant criticism.’

  ‘How could he? He’s never here! Last Christmas he disappeared in the middle of the Christmas dinner!’

  ‘He was called away on urgent business.’

  ‘So he said – and you chose to believe him! I’ll be in the garden if you want me.’ Scowling, he pushed himself to his feet.

  Adam looked at him. ‘But Grandpapa, it’s raining!’

  ‘I like the rain.’

  Lydia gritted her teeth. ‘If you must go in the garden, please take an umbrella, Father.’

  ‘I’ll do nothing of the sort. I’ll get wet – but that’s my business. My choice! You seem to forget I’m not a child. I’m your father!’

  Lydia bit back another sharp reply, but then forced back the words and smiled at her son. ‘Come and sit with me, Adam, and I’ll read you what Papa says about that picture you drew for him. The engine. Do you remember?’

  He beamed as he scrambled on to the sofa beside her. ‘The one with all the smoke? Did Papa like it?’

  ‘He liked it very much, Adam.’

  ‘I can draw him another picture. I can draw a house and a tree, and I can put Snip in the picture.’

  ‘I’m sure he would like that, Adam. Your papa is coming home soon, Adam, and you can tell him all about the puppy.’