The only hurdle left was telling her parents that the baby was going to be half-caste. How would she explain she’d been with a black bloke? It wasn’t done round her way. But she took strength remembering the time her mum made a lemon drizzle cake for the Baileys, a black family three doors down from them. When Rosie had got back she’d smiled and said, ‘Upstanding family.’
Babs swept all her fears to the side. She bent her head and whispered to her child, ‘Everything’s gonna be alright, baby-mine.’
Stan came back into the front office. ‘I’m popping out for the rest of the day.’
After he left, Babs touched her lips lightly where Stan had kissed her. If only she’d met Stan before Neville.
Stan parked his motor in a side street in Bow. He went into the town hall and up to the third floor. A secretary at a desk was guarding a door behind her. Stan breezed past.
She shot up in alarm, spluttering, ‘I’m sorry, can I help you?’
He shot her a lopsided smile, not breaking his stride. ‘No, you’re alright, I’ll sort myself out.’
The secretary hurried to bar the way. ‘I’m sorry, you can’t go in there. There’s a meeting going on.’
His smile widened. ‘I know, angel, I’m invited.’
‘I don’t think you are.’ Her alarm turned to suspicion. ‘Who are you anyway?’
‘Me? I’m one of Joey’s ol’ Chinas. Ask him later. He’ll tell you.’
As Stan tried the handle, the woman tried to push him back. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
Stan grabbed her by the wrists. ‘Why don’t you let me go about my business? I don’t want to turn nasty and it’s against my principles to manhandle birds. Unless of course they’re offering to be manhandled – that’s different . . .’ His remark made her eyebrows shoot almost into her hairline, but she said nothing further. Tangling with Stan was obviously more than her job was worth. He shifted her to one side and opened the door.
A meeting was indeed going on. A dozen people were gathered around a long polished table, a tubby man in a polyester suit, glasses and a comb-over presiding at the head. When Stan swaggered in, all eyes turned to him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.
The tubby bloke looked stumped for a few moments before turning angry. ‘Who the hell are you? This is a private meeting. Get out immediately!’
Stan was having none of it. He pulled up a chair, sat down and popped his feet up on the table. ‘Oh, come on, that’s no way for a councillor to talk to an old mate. You wouldn’t want me to take a picture and share it with the East London Advertiser, would you?’
The blood drained from Councillor Joseph Carter’s face. Stan carried on, ‘Why don’t you tell these good people to go and have a cuppa and a ginger nut. I expect they could do with a break after listening to you droning on all afternoon.’
With colour flooding his cheeks, the councillor addressed the table. ‘Could you excuse me for a moment, everyone? Only for five minutes while I have this gentleman kicked out.’
Stan nudged the woman next to him in the ribs. ‘He’s well hard, ain’t he?’
The woman jerked away from him like a bad smell. She and the others shuffled out of their chairs and left, whispering all the way. For a fat bloke Joseph was out of his chair pretty lively, hurrying to make sure the door was firmly closed. He was sweating like a pig by the time he came back. ‘What the hell are you doing here? I did what you asked, but I refuse to do another thing for you.’
Stan had been glad when Mickey had handed the admin work for his properties over. It made sense because paperwork, indeed writing itself, wasn’t really Mickey’s thing. Business wasn’t really Mickey’s thing either. His old mucker’s preferred method was to try some bogus charm for five minutes, followed by threats of violence. Stan had no objection to using menaces but, like a golf player, he knew you had to use the right club for the stroke you were trying to pull. Mickey didn’t understand that. In fact, Stan had been wondering for some time what exactly he did understand. But at least that meant that Stan was left alone to concentrate on the bigger picture. And Joey was definitely part of the bigger picture.
Stan took out his metal cigarette case and lit up. ‘I understand why your nose might be a bit out of joint – and not just because it don’t fit your face.’ He tapped his ash into a glass of water. ‘It’s cheeky of me but I’m in a bit of a fix and I need a favour. Nothing too serious.’
‘No, no, no.’ Spit flew violently from the councillor’s mouth. ‘I’m not doing you any more favours. If that’s all you’re here for, I must kindly ask you to leave.’
Stan took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘That’s disappointing. But if that’s how you feel . . .’
‘That’s how I feel.’
‘OK. Fair dos.’ He stood up and dropped his dog-end into the water. Then he put his hand in his breast pocket and pulled out a photo. He laid it on the table. Councillor Joseph Carter started shaking as he numbly gazed at the photo of himself: naked and having the time of his life as a black woman did the business on top of him.
‘How’s your fine wife and your lovely kids?’ Stan quietly asked. ‘Wonder what they’d think about you doing the dirty with a black tart?’
Joseph Carter slumped into a chair, his shoulders sagging, the picture of a broken man. ‘Why won’t you just leave me alone?’
Stan scoffed and went to the door. As he opened it he heard Joey’s agonised plea, ‘Please, Miller!’
What a fucking prima donna, Stan thought as he let a huge, triumphant grin spread across his face. He dropped the smile and sat down next to the defeated man, putting his arm around his shoulder. He played up the mock sympathy to the hilt. ‘It’s only a little thing, mate. I just need some help with planning permission on some houses.’
‘I’ve got nothing to do with planning permission and you know it.’
‘Of course not.’ Stan tightened his arm. ‘But I expect you know the blokes who do. Just put a word in for me. I ain’t asking for permission to put a betting shop on Park Lane.’ He slapped the other man on the back. ‘And I forgot to say thanks for sorting out that flat for my mate. She’s tickled pink.’
Joey winced, but said nothing. He didn’t have to. His silence was all Stan needed.
Nineteen
The baby kicked away as Beryl and Cheryl took Babs on a grand tour of the estate. There was so much of it to take in. Her head spun as they pointed out one thing after another after another.
‘That’s Patsy’s corner shop. Her son Big Marky helps her out along with his bulldog Sidney.’
‘Around the back there is the post office. If you’ve ever got any problems just ask for Mrs Green.’
‘That’s the cemetery. No one’s put to rest there any more, but you still wouldn’t want to be there after dark.’
‘Over there is the chippie. Oh, it does a nice bit of cod. Next door is the ironmongers.’
‘Those two women we call Miss Mean and Miss Trouble. A right poisonous pair. Stay well away from them.’
They stopped when they came across a short bald man fixing the railings near the small park. Beryl and Cheryl waved frantically and yelled, ‘You alright, Arnie?’ Beryl added, ‘This is Babs, who’s just moved in. She’s expecting a little delivery in the not-too-distant future, so make sure you keep a special eye out.’ Arnie nodded respectfully in Babs’ direction.
‘Why do you want him to look out for me?’ Babs asked as they moved on.
Cheryl explained. ‘He’s the caretaker—’
‘There’s a caretaker?’ Babs had never heard the like. The Essex Lane Estate was a dream come true.
Cheryl obviously felt the same. Her eyes came over all dreamy. ‘I know, fancy that. Find yourself in any bovver or need a little repair doing, just knock on his door. He can’t talk, that’s why he gave you a nod.’ Her voice turned fierce. ‘Don’t treat him like a nitwit though. Just coz he can’t speak don’t make him stupid.’
Babs smiled. That’
s what she loved about her neighbours, they didn’t just see the surface, they saw the person underneath. She’d forever be grateful to them for not judging her.
Beryl added, ‘Although we’ve got Arnie, all the blocks have a list so each family takes it in turn to wash the stairs from top to bottom. We might be poor but that don’t mean we have to live dirty.’
They carried on walking, Beryl and Cheryl jib-jabbering away, until they reached a one-storey brick building on the west side of the estate.
Beryl produced a large set of keys. ‘This is where I work. I got the job to manage the place.’
Babs was confused. ‘What is it?’
‘Wait and see,’ Cheryl piped up, the sparkle in her gaze suggesting Babs was in for a treat.
Beryl opened up and proudly announced, ‘Welcome to the washhouse.’
They entered a huge room with white tiles and thick copper pipes on the wall. It was filled with large sinks and taps, wooden and glass washboards, mangles, two iron presses, laundry tongs, baskets and wooden rails to dry clothes on.
Beryl went into her manager’s patter. ‘This is for anyone on the estate, but it’s understood that it’s for us women only. It’s free to use, all you’ve got to bring along is your dirty laundry and soap. One simple rule – no fighting. You got a problem with someone, you take it outside.’
They sat Babs down on one of the long wooden benches and got cosy with teacups of Beryl’s homemade sloe gin.
‘Soooo,’ Cheryl said in a long, drawn-out tone, ‘where’s the bastard who left his bun in your oven?’
Babs started blushing, feeling again the humiliation of being chucked by Neville.
She didn’t know what made her say it but she blurted out, ‘He’s coloured.’
The other women gave each other a look. Babs waited for their outraged condemnation, but it never came. Cheryl simply said, ‘Well, you know what they say, it takes all sorts to make a world.’
Beryl sipped some gin. ‘My Auntie Eileen ran off with a Chinese sailor from Limehouse. My Granny Lyn wouldn’t talk to her no more, that’s until she saw her grandkids, my cousins. Fell right in love with them.’
‘I haven’t told my mum and dad about the father,’ Babs said sadly.
The women gave each other that look again and then Cheryl shifted her eyes to Babs. ‘I’m going to talk to you like a mum would to her daughter. You’ve got to tell your people. At a time like this you need your family around you. Just tell them and see what happens. Honesty is always the—’
Beryl joined in. ‘Best policy.’ Abruptly she stood up, her gaze diving into a dark corner. ‘Ere, what was that?’
Cheryl rolled her eyes. ‘Not the bloody rats again. The council wanna . . .’
A small boy darted out and belted for the door. But he wasn’t quick enough. Cheryl lunged forward, caught his jumper and hauled him back. Babs looked into one of the saddest faces she’d ever seen. He had one enormous dark brown eye visible behind National Health glasses. She couldn’t see the other one: it was covered with a thick plaster to help correct a lazy eye. He was streaked with dirt and his jumper and trousers had holes in them. He didn’t smell too bright either.
Cheryl gave him a shake. ‘I thought I told you to keep your tea-leafing mitts away from here, Kieran Scott.’
Beryl shoved her fists on her hips. ‘You should be indoors. Your mum will be proper worried about you.’
His head snapped up defiantly. ‘No she won’t. She’s got some fella with her. Told me not to come back until the moon’s in the sky.’
Poor thing, Babs thought, he looked like he needed a bath, some new clobber and some tender loving care. It broke her heart to see a child in such a state. ‘Fancy coming over to mine for a nice bit of bread and strawberry jam?’
Cheryl gasped. ‘You can’t take him home. Probably leave nits all over your drum.’ Beryl nodded in agreement.
But for once Babs ignored her neighbours. All she did was stretch out her hand and he took it.
‘Flippin’ hell.’ Denny gawked, looking around the upmarket Bond Street clothes shop, eyes wide with wonder. ‘This looks like something out of a film set.’
Mel had been seeing Denny on a regular basis, splashing out on her, taking her here and there, drawing her into her and Mickey’s web. The girl might be a proper dim bat but, surprisingly, Mel enjoyed her company. Denny wasn’t a girl who rabbited her head off. She was sweet really. A little bit of Mel regretted what she and Mickey were setting her up for. But only a little.
Mel grinned as she linked arms with the younger woman and pulled her close. ‘This is the lifestyle you can expect if you become one of our models.’
For the next half an hour Denny had the time of her life, eyes nearly falling out of her head as she was presented with so many dresses she could hardly keep up. Choirboy dresses, shirt dresses, exotic glamorous coat dresses.
‘And this is from our most exclusive range,’ the manager declared, beaming.
Even Mel was struck dumb. An eye-grabbing emerald-green evening dress with a high slit that took showing a bit of leg into a whole new dimension.
‘We’ll take it,’ Mel announced.
A shocked Denny turned to her. ‘But that must cost a packet. I don’t—’
Mel patted her hand. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing.’ She turned to the jubilant manager. ‘Have it wrapped and we’ll come back after lunch.’
That wiped the smile off her face. ‘You’re not going to buy it now?’
Mel looked her up and down. ‘Of course not. You can’t take a beautiful dress like that into a restaurant. What if something spilled on it?’
‘Of course, of course,’ the other woman agreed. ‘It will be waiting for you when you return.’
As soon as they left the shop Denny gushed, ‘I can’t believe that you bought that gorgeous dress for me.’ She did an excited twirl in the street.
Mel wasn’t about to burst her bubble and tell her the truth – that Denny was never going to wear it because Mel wasn’t going back for it. She’d spin some tale about Mickey going to pick the dress up later. Mel had learned years ago that all you had to do to make desperate people do what you wanted was to give them a promise. The promise of a glitzy dress to show the world you were no longer poor. The promise of a modelling career to show that dreams really did come true for working-class girls.
‘Denny, darling,’ Mel said with mock excitement, ‘I’ve got a surprise.’
Denny sucked in her breath. ‘What?’
‘Mickey’s back from Paris.’ Denny’s face lit up. ‘He’s asked if you’ll come to a showbiz party he’s hosting next week Tuesday—’
‘A showbiz bash?’ The girl clapped her hands together, her eyes glittering. ‘You mean famous people are going to be there?’
Mel clasped Denny’s hands. ‘Mickey knows all kind of faces from the entertainment world.’
‘Where’s the party? Soho? Mayfair?’
‘Mile End.’
Denny pulled away abruptly. ‘Mile End? That don’t sound like the type of place famous people hang out.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Someone really famous has a house there. It’s his secret hideaway, so the press can’t find him when he comes to Britain.’
Denny could hardly contain herself. ‘Who is it?’
Mel shook her head and tapped her nose. ‘He wants to keep his hideaway all hush-hush, so my lips are sealed. But when you get there I’ll personally introduce you.’
‘I can’t believe any of this,’ Denny gasped.
You know what they say, if it’s too good to be true . . . But Mel kept that sentiment to herself. ‘Good girl. You can’t tell anyone about it, OK. And Mickey has promised to get your modelling career in motion the next day.’ Mel gave her a huge hug and whispered in her ear, ‘You won’t live to regret this, believe me.’
Twenty
‘Wotcha Stan – it’s Jimmy from the Threes. That bloke you came to see me about, the lord? He’s pla
ying blackjack at one of our tables.’
Stan pumped his clenched fist in the air and mouthed an ecstatic ‘yes’, like he did when Arsenal scored (although the left-footed twats had lost the FA Cup to Leeds). He’d finally tracked down his golden list’s last name – Lord Tilgate. Pinning down Lord Tilgate was as difficult as finding a bloke who owed you a ton in the East End. A toff’s name connected to his business was essential for the contacts that would help his empire rise and rise. Stan knew he’d never get into any of the gentleman’s clubs Lord Tilgate frequented in a million years, so he’d followed a hunch that like most toffs, he enjoyed the seamier side of the entertainment that Soho dished out so well. His gamble had paid off.
‘You done well. That drink I owe you will be waiting behind the bar.’ The manager of the Threes had only been amenable if he stumped up some cash. Fair enough.
Stan went into the tiny toilet and splashed some water on his face. He considered going home to get changed but decided a crumpled suit and midnight shadow was the right look for the Threes anyway. The casino had originally been the Three Bells – till the owner got fed up with bankrupt punters calling it the Three Hells and changed the name. Then the gamblers started calling it ‘that fucking bent casino’ instead.
He walked the half mile to the back of Leicester Square and climbed up the casino’s fire escape. Two likely lads were standing guard on a heavy door.
‘Alright Stan. How’s business?’ one of them asked.
‘Yeah, good. Is Jimmy in?’
‘Yeah. Just got back from handing over the local Old Bill’s winnings.’
Stan didn’t blink. Paying off bent coppers was part of the landscape. Stan had been sixteen when he first realised that the Bill were up for a backhander. He’d been enjoying a jar in Limehouse when two men had waltzed in, easy as you please, and doled out a bone-crushing beating to a man at a nearby table. He’d later learned that the reason no one had stepped in to stop it – including the victim’s mates – was because the two thugs were cops sent by a local Face to teach the geezer a lesson he’d never forget.
Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series) Page 11
