by Maggie Ford
The excitement of that thought all but rubbed out the fear. Perhaps, like Di had said, it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Would the police really have taken notice of a woman apparently talking rubbish about her husband being a fence? Not unless they felt bloody-minded enough to follow it up. And she might have realised that she too could find herself implicated and tell them it was all silly imagination. They had nothing to go on, did they?
Once home he would tax Geraldine to see just how much she had told the police. It surely couldn’t have been that much because what she knew had only been what he’d told her and only that he was doing a big job for someone and stood to reap a good payout. Then he would telephone Treater or one of the others if he still wasn’t home and do a bit of careful explaining, apologising, a bit of wriggling. He wouldn’t be in their good books but it hadn’t been him who’d contacted the law. Maybe no harm had been done at all, he managed to convince himself just under a mile from home.
Feeling better and able to breathe more easily, he slowed to a stop outside a tobacconists not far from Hyde Park Corner to saunter in for a packet of Players, looking to delay the time when he must confront a possibly still irate Geraldine.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Geraldine practically stumbled from the taxi as it stopped outside Alan’s yard. She’d hardly been able to manage to give the address, her voice had shaken so much. She must have looked like some mad woman, face working, eyes staring from their sockets, her hair, short though it was, uncombed and her clothes dishevelled as she stumbled along Grove Road looking for a taxi and when one finally came along, frantically waving for it to stop.
She had never been so frightened in all her life. She had concluded that the ringing on the door had been Tony and had gone down determined to give him his marching orders for daring to lift his fist to her. Well, hand really. But it had felt like a fist. All right, he’d been beside himself at her going to the police like that and she couldn’t blame him, but to hit her was inexcusable.
The ready words of vilification as she yanked open the door had died on her lips, Sam Treater’s disarming smile confronting her. With him was William Schulter. Sam had asked if Tony was around and when she’d said he was not, in no uncertain terms, anger still there, he’d smiled even sweeter and asked if they could come in and wait. Caught on the rebound she had snapped that she had no idea if he’d even be back and couldn’t care less if he never did. Treater had said sympathetically, ‘Like that is it? Had a row then?’ And when she’d replied that she supposed it could be called that, he’d said, ‘Well, never mind. We’ll come in for a moment anyway. It may be we’ll only need to speak to you.’
When she had asked what about, he’d slowly reached out and gently but firmly pushed her to one side, he and Schulter entering before she could think to stop them, taken aback by Treater’s almighty presumptuousness.
She’d followed up the stairs, growing more and more angry at their rude arrogance, had even demanded who they thought they were. Neither took any notice of her until they were in her lounge, gazing about the place as if they owned it and as she followed them in had turned to face her, Treater’s heavy face by then bereft of any smile. His words still pierced her brain.
‘I’ll tell you who we think we are. We’re your husband’s colleagues who’ve entertained him, put him where he is, welcomed you into our midst – our wives have been good friends to you, we’ve given you good times, the best of everything. And now we find we aren’t worth a second of loyalty.’
When she’d asked what they were talking about, Treater had replied in a tone that had frightened the living daylights out of her. ‘We’re talking about you, my dear, going to the police about what your husband does for a living. No consideration for us, that we might be for the drop because of you. You may not care for what he or we do for a living, but both of you are happy to share in the spoils, aren’t you? Not one word of gratitude, but when things look too rough, it’s off to the police with a tongue as loose as a prostitute’s pussy. And there’s us putting all our trust in you both – yes, you’re as much involved as him – and thinking of all the good turns we’ve done you both in having him working for us and getting good returns for it.’
He’d begun poking a finger at her, the finger connecting with her shoulder, jerking her backwards with each sentence. She’d glanced round for escape to find that the silent Schulter had got between her and the door. She remembered crying out, ‘What d’you want?’ but still the toneless tirade went on. The digging finger became a fist punching at her shoulder until she was crying out in protest.
Backed up against Schulter, she had felt the flat of Treater’s hand connect with the side of her head, not her face, no marks left to show, and continued to slap against the top of her head, knocking it from one side to the other. All the time the voice had grated that they knew she’d been to the police, were very put out by it, and when they got hold of Tony he’d get worse than this; that if he thought they would use him now he had another think coming – the deal off, as was the whole job, thanks to her, so where was her husband, when would she expect him home? And don’t lie!
The smacking had got worse, Schulter beginning to dig her in the back with his knuckles, not enough to do damage but painful. Squirming and trying to fight back, she heard herself being referred to as a silly girl who had behaved like a child, and needed a lesson like all naughty children. The next second she found herself pushed back and lying over Schulter’s knees, face down as he lowered himself onto a nearby chair. Like the child they said she was, she felt her skirt being pulled up over her waist. But she wasn’t a child and as the blue silk knickers were displayed to these male eyes, her brain screamed at the thought of rape. Instead, struggling like a mad thing at the prospect, she had felt a smarting slap connecting with her bottom. Slap after stinging slap had landed, the silk of little protection, the sick dread of that first thought gave way to the humiliation of this present treatment.
The flesh numbed, she’d suddenly been dropped unceremoniously to the floor. They’d strode out without another word, satisfied that she’d been given a lesson. Tony would receive harsher treatment and it was her fault. She had really messed things up for them both yet she couldn’t feel fearful for him. He’d caused all this in the first place, she told herself. How was a wife expected to feel and react, wronged as she’d been, kept in the dark?
Humiliation and the fright she’d received overrode all sense of guilt as she stumbled from the flat, her nether parts stinging as though they had been whipped. Her head still throbbed from the battering of those flat-handed blows. All she’d wanted was to find help, though what sort she had no idea. She’d had the presence of mind to snatch at her coat and handbag, though she was into Piccadilly before realising she was hatless, where no woman going about her business in this part of the world would dream of ever being seen out of doors without one, people passing her in that busy road glancing askance at her.
Seeing a taxi she’d waved it down, almost fell into it and had given Alan’s work address. If he weren’t there, where would she go? She couldn’t go to her own people, not like this. She sat in the taxi shaking uncontrollably inside from delayed shock, lips trembling, eyes brimming with tears of humiliation and from the horror of what had happened. Outside Alan’s business she felt overwhelming relief to see the gate standing open and men moving about in the yard beyond. He had to be there.
The peak-capped cabby stated his fare as she fumbled for the money, only to find her purse had been left behind. The handbag she had grabbed was one used for evenings, held hardly anything – a handkerchief, a silver cigarette case, a lipstick, a comb and a powder compact. No need for money, Tony paid for everything when they were out together.
‘Can you wait?’ she gasped. ‘I’ll get some money from inside.’
With the cabby yelling, ‘Hey! Wait a minute, ’ere, ’old on!’ she raced off through the gates, vaguely aware of the driver scrambling out of his cab to pursue
her, his voice going on faintly behind her. ‘I mighta known your lark when I picked yer up! But y’ain’t getting’ away wiv it though, lass.’
She almost fell into Alan’s office, praying he’d be there. He was, looking up in astonishment from what he was doing.
‘What in God’s name—’
‘Alan! Have you got any money. I need ter pay the cab.’
The man had arrived at the door, more fleet-footed than she was. ‘’Ere, what’s the lark …?’ He stopped, seeing Alan, then went on, ‘This lady ain’t—’
‘How much?’ queried Alan, cutting him short.
‘Three bob. Come all the way from the West End she ’as. A bloomin’ long way, that is, an’ I ain’t—’
‘Here. And somethink for your trouble.’
Seeing the extra shilling falling brightly into his quickly outstretched hand, his angry face changed to a grin. He touched his cap. ‘Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean ter be awkward like, but … Well, cheers, an’ all the best.’ And he was gone.
Geraldine, watching the small scene, could only bend her head as Alan let out a laugh and came to put a hand under her chin ready to chide her. Her expression killed the laugh stone dead.
‘Gel, what in ’eaven’s name’s the matter?’
In reply she burst into tears, flinging herself forward into his arms, making him bend to catch her to him. Crouching before her he held her away to gaze into her face as best he could with her wanting only to hide it against the dusty overalls he wore. Relenting, he let her rest her face against him, smoothing her hair and rocking her gently until at last the sobbing subsided. She felt a movement as he raised a hand at one time to wave away someone who came into the hut, the man hastily drawing back and leaving.
Slowly she was able to calm down, lifting her face away from his chest to look wordlessly up at him. He was surveying her face, was frowning at the sight of the small, gathering bruise on her cheek bone. Despite Tony using the flat of his hand it had been a hard slap and had left its mark after all.
‘Who did that to you?’ came the demand. She lifted a hand to it, a sort of reflex action of attempting to hide it. ‘Come on, Gel, who did that?’
This time she found her voice and it came out in a torrent of words. ‘I told Tony I went to the police. He lashed out at me. He’d have never done that if he hadn’t been frightened. He’s never laid a hand on me before. I should never have gone. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was so incensed that he’d been carrying on with someone else behind my back. I felt betrayed. I thought he loved me.’
She was jabbering on faster and faster, her voice threatening to break into sobbing again. Alan lifted a gentle hand to her lips to stop the flow of words.
‘When was this?’ he asked, noticeably holding back anger.
‘Last night. Then he stalked out. I haven’t seen him since.’
‘What were yer doing all night on yer own? Why didn’t yer come to me?’
‘I was too shocked to do anything, even to move. I ended up falling asleep in an armchair.’
‘And got yerself in a state all over again this morning.’
‘No, there’s more.’ The need to tell him everything and feel safe again was why she was here. It was an effort to control the wavering of her voice. Nor did she care to watch her accent any more. ‘I was woke up this morning by someone ringing the doorbell. I thought it was Tony come back. I was so angry by then that I rushed down to tell ’im to bugger off – I didn’t want to see ’im ever again. But it wasn’t him. It was two men he deals with. One called Sam Treater and one called William Schulter. They barged their way in and then began threatening me.’
In halting tones she forced herself to recount what had occurred. It felt as if she was going through it all again. It was telling on her but each time she faltered, she was urged on. Alan’s expression was as dark as a thundercloud and almost as frightening. It felt as though she was as much helpless in his hands as she had been in those of her callers that morning and it came to her suddenly that her own will was being taken from her, taken from her first by the vileness of those intruders and now by the love of a man looking only to protect her, but either way that she was being reduced to a weak and babbling female. Her reaction was immediate, her voice sharp.
‘I don’t want to say any more. I think I’ve said all I need to say.’
Alan seemed to come out of some sort of coma, shaking himself like a wet dog. ‘Good God!’ was all he said, and looking at her with something like incredibility at what she’d been telling him, said again, ‘Good God!’
What else he might have said, maybe his resorting to cursing and ranting, didn’t happen. It seemed that by a physical effort he was controlling all that was seething inside him. When he spoke his voice shook for only a moment or two, then steadied.
‘What I think we’ll do is take yer to yer mum’s—’
She drew away. ‘I don’t want to go there. I don’t want ’em to see me like this.’
‘I’ll be with you, love. I won’t leave yer until yer’ve settled. Yer mum is the person yer really want at this minute.’
He didn’t know her mum. ‘I only want you, Alan.’
‘Well, you’ve got me. I’m coming with yer. And I won’t leave yer.’
It was said with such simplicity, coupled with a light kiss on her lips, so instantly comforting, that she bowed her head and let him take her to his van, he threading her arm through his in a firm grip against his side as he called across to his somewhat bemused foreman to carry on while he was out.
‘Now, who’s that this time in the morning?’ asked Hilda Glover to the empty air as a knock came at her street door.
It was coming up to nine-thirty. Everyone gone to work ages ago, she was sitting over a nice, well-earned cup of tea and a biscuit after having got up early, done sandwiches, made toast all round for breakfasts, called up time and time again for Evie to get herself up, lazy little cow, her father gone well before daylight, his present job at the West India Docks doing well, decent money coming in once more after a bout of short time.
Fred too never needed calling twice, so enthusiastic about his job with the News Chronicle paper, reckoning on going places. Had a steady girlfriend now, Alice, nice little girl, she was. Him obviously very much in love, Hilda just hoped all this soppiness of his wouldn’t get between him and his job and dampen all that enthusiasm. But if he was that serious he’d need to save for the future. It did look serious because he’d been going with her for nearly seven months, taking her here, taking her there, the two of them cycling off for miles into the country – Epping Forest, Ongar, even all those miles to Southend – and where they got the stamina from beat her. Before that he’d had a new girl every few weeks or so.
With the breakfast things washed up and put away, this time was for her before going off shopping, and she meant to relax, for the last half-hour or so trying to avoid gazing around the kitchen and seeing something she ought to be doing instead of sitting here idle-like.
After shopping she’d call in at Mavis’s, taking in a bit of grub for their midday snack. She never went there empty-handed. Mavis’s Tom was in work but only just and money was tight with three kiddies to look after, Simon now five, Barbara four, Edie now two, and now Mavis was carrying again. The only thing Tom seemed good at was giving a woman babies. It’d be nice if he was as keen at keeping a job as he was at his bits of diddly-diddly in bed. Still, he didn’t drink away what he did earn, like some men, she had to say that for him, and he wasn’t a violent man with his family either – in fact, too easy sometimes. Mavis always nagged on at him being blessed useless, except of course when it came to the other, then it seemed he was God’s gift judging by the times she’d fallen pregnant. Four kids in six years after this fourth one came in four months time. Now there were newfangled means of controlling births, you’d think she’d learn. Though, of course, such methods did cost.
‘In my day,’ she addressed the kitchen between sips of tea, ‘in my d
ay you ’ad ter learn ’ow ter keep yer man at bay, say yer was at that time of the month even if yer weren’t, if yer could get away with it. Yer learnt ter give any excuse what come to ’and, yer know, and learn quick or yer’d be always ’aving babies. No books on birth control then. ‘Ad ter ’ave yer wits about yer an’ that was all. ’Course, some never did. That’s why—’
The double knock on her street door put a stop to her soliloquy to ask, ‘Now, who’s that this time in the morning?’
She wasn’t expecting anyone. Someone peddling a load of rubbish no doubt – well, she’d soon see them off. She hadn’t money to throw around on brushes and dustcloths. What she had was there to keep her family.
Yanking open the door to send them on their way, her words, ‘Not terday, thanks,’ died on her lips seeing Alan Presley and Geraldine standing there, his motor van drawn up in the kerb. Neither of them looked all that happy. In fact her daughter looked positively out of sorts, clinging to Alan’s arm as though she might fall if she let go.
‘Sorry to call so early in the morning, Mrs Glover,’ Alan began. ‘Your Geraldine ain’t none too dusty. She’s ’ad a bit of a fright. Can we come in?’
‘Well of course yer can,’ were the first words out of her mouth. ‘Take ’er inter the back room. There ain’t no one in but me.’
Seated in her father’s wooden armchair, the only comfortable one in that room, Geraldine kept silent as Alan began to reiterate all she had told him. There was much more but she felt she could not bring herself to give tongue to it, the terror she’d felt, the way they had treated her, the fear of what she’d thought her intruders might do to her, the humiliation of being spanked, her silk combinations being on show to those men. These were things she could never tell anyone.
‘So you see, Mrs Glover,’ Alan concluded, ‘I thought she ought to come to you, ’er mum. Gels need their mums at times like this, don’t they?’
