Goodnight Lady

by Martina Cole

  Briony felt an absurd lump in her throat hearing her sister talk. A great rush of love for Eileen washed over her.

  Eileen grimaced again, and her tea spilt into the saucer. She made a grunting sound and Mary and Briony both looked at one another in alarm. Taking the cup from Eileen, Briony pulled back the covers of the bed. Lying between Eileen’s legs, unmoving, was a tiny baby. She dropped the cup to the carpet with shock.

  ‘Jesus save us! Mary, get the doctor! For goodness’ sakes, get a doctor!’

  Eileen lay back in the bed, a triumphant smile on her face. Briony stared down at the child. It looked like a skinned rabbit. Then it moved, its small hand making a fist, and mewled like a newborn kitten.

  ‘It’s alive! Oh, thank God, it’s alive.’

  Sister Mary pushed Briony out of the way and took over. It was Briony who telephoned the doctor, Kerry and Bernie were outside on the landing and Mrs Horlock and Cissy were inside helping.

  Briony pushed through the door, her heart beating like mad, her face flushed.

  Cissy held the little boy in her arms by the fire, and Mrs Horlock pushed down on Eileen’s stomach.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Mrs H flapped a hand in front of her face and resumed her pushing.

  ‘There’s another little bugger in here or I’m a Chinaman. Come on, Eileen love, push!’

  Eileen lay in bed, her face screwed up in concentration. Briony watched entranced as another head appeared. The child slipped from its mother without a sound then set up a lusty wailing as it hit the cold of the air.

  ‘Twins! Oh, Eileen, you’ve got twins!’

  Kerry and Bernadette burst into the room at this and both began doing a little dance.

  Eileen lay back, her face wet with sweat. ‘What are they?’

  Mrs Horlock smiled at Eileen and said, ‘They’re boys. Two boys as identical as your own two hands!’

  Sister Mary looked the children over and grinned. ‘They’re small, but they’re healthy. Who would have credited that, eh? Two of the little buggers!’

  Kerry, Bernie and Briony, along with the other occupants of the room, all stood open-mouthed with shock as they heard the little nun swear.

  She laughed with delight, her relief at the birth being over making her excited.

  ‘I think the Good Lord will forgive a bit of overexuberance at a time like this, eh?’

  Eileen was cleaned up and both her sons placed in her arms at her request. She looked down into their tiny faces and smiled.

  ‘My sons, my boys.’ Her voice was thick with emotion.

  Cissy and Mrs Horlock disappeared to make them all some breakfast. Bernadette and Kerry got dressed. Bernadette was going to fetch their mother and Kerry had to feed Liselle who had set up a wailing of her own. Briony hugged the tiny nun and hugged Eileen.

  ‘They’re beautiful boys, Eileen. And what a night! Why didn’t you let on you were in labour?’

  Eileen smiled and said softly, ‘I wasn’t sure, to be honest. Take these two for me, Bri, would you?’

  She took one baby and Sister Mary the other. As they unswaddled the babies and began to wash them, Eileen gave a long sigh.

  Briony smiled at the nun. ‘She must be tired out, bless her.’

  The nun placed a baby back against her chest and said sadly as she walked to the bed, ‘I think she’s been tired for a long time, Briony. She’s gone.’

  Briony walked to the bed, one tiny baby snuggled into her breast, and as she looked at Eileen’s serene face, gave a loud cry.

  The doctor arrived five minutes later, but he was too late. As Briony remarked to Sister Mary, he was fifteen years too late.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Briony stared down at the two children lying side by side in their cots. Each slept on his stomach, tiny hands clenched into fists as if they were born to fight. If one moved, the other moved. Just three days old and so alike it was impossible to tell them apart. As Briony looked at them, she was filled with love. Eileen had known what she was doing when she gave these boys to her. They filled a deep gaping void in her, that had been growing bigger and bigger in the years since she had handed over her own child. Now these two motherless boys assuaged that grief.

  Briony had found two wet nurses, Lily Nailor, whose own baby had died a week before, and Carol Jarret, whose child was off the breast and being cared for by her mother. Needless to say, only Lily lived in. The two boys had already become the focal point of the house, along with Liselle. It seemed that after years of being peopled only by adults, the house was now full of babies. Everywhere Briony looked was evidence of them.

  Molly was prostrate with grief. Even Briony had warmed to her at this evidence of her love for Eileen. She was taking the death of her child badly, and when Sister Mary had told her of Eileen’s dying wish that the twins should go to Briony, had acquiesced without a murmur. Briony felt already as if the boys were her own.

  She stroked the two downy heads. They were so alike it was startling. Both had the same burnished copper hair that was already darkening, eventually to become a deep chestnut-brown, and both had deep-set blue eyes. They had nothing of their gentle mother in them, though Briony could see nothing of O’Malley in them either. She was glad. These were Cavanaghs, and would be called Cavanagh. She would see to that.

  Jonathan la Billière awoke, a pain shot through his skull and he groaned. He looked at his watch, and groaned again. Sitting up in a strange bed, he was relieved to find himself alone. He had been partying with Rupert and Peter for three days solid and now he had woken thirsty, hung over, and stinking. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror opposite, he pushed his hands through his dark hair in consternation. He had deep shadows under his eyes and needed a shave badly. He lay back in the bed as he felt giddiness coming over him again. He was finished with drink, he promised himself that. He was due in Hollywood in less than a fortnight and had a lot to do before then.

  He smiled at his own good fortune. The Changeling had shown everyone what he had always known: he was a damned good actor. The story was a melodrama about a man who comes back years later to claim his inheritance, after an evil housekeeper switches her child for the rightful heir. It was a stupid storyline, but he had made it work. He was the Changeling and he had given the part all he had. The film was a success, and now offers were pouring in thick and fast. He was pleased with himself, pleased at how his life was going. The boy from the South London backstreets, still alive in him, though carefully submerged these days, kicked himself each day to make sure it was all true.

  He walked out on to the landing and realised he was in Peter’s house. He opened a door nearby, looking for a bathroom of some description. No luck. It was as he approached another door that he heard the noise. He stood still and listened carefully.

  It sounded like someone crying.

  Walking towards the sound, he opened Peter’s bedroom door. It was an act he was to regret all his life.

  Peter was sitting on the floor naked; the whole room seemed to be covered in blood. It was even on the ceiling, great red splashes vivid against the white paint. The bed was one deep crimson stain, and on it lay a young man Jonathan could not remember seeing before. Beside him, sitting with his head in his hands, was Rupert.

  Peter looked at Jonathan over his shoulder and said brokenly, ‘It was only a game, a silly game... I never meant it.’

  He started crying harder, his face a mass of make-up and tear stains.

  Jonathan put his hand to his mouth to stop the tide of sickness rising up in him. The fresh smell of blood was cloying, sickly sweet on the air. Staggering from the room, he ran down the stairs. He picked up the phone and dialled Briony’s number. She was the only person he could think of who would be able to sort out a mess like this.

  Briony was at the house in twenty minutes. She walked through the door with her usual air of capability and common sense. The first thing she did was to give Jonathan a large scotch, then she went up and looked
at the damage for herself.

  Staring at Peter and Rupert, she shook her head in disgust. She didn’t bother checking if the boy on the bed was still alive. It was obviously far too late. He was no more than sixteen, she saw. His hands were tied behind him, and his legs were manacled to the bed. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. When she forced herself to look closely, she found that his head had been practically severed from his body. Nowhere in Briony’s wildest imaginings could she envisage a sex game resulting in this. And she knew more about the sexual wants of people than most. But this was out of her territory.

  Peter was crying again. His face had two long glistening trails of mascara down it. Briony stifled an urge to let him feel some pain and scratch his eyes out.

  Leaving the room, she went down to Jonathan. ‘Any servants here?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I should imagine Peter has someone come in. With his lifestyle, he wouldn’t want anyone living here, would he? It stands to reason.’

  ‘What are we going to do, Briony? I didn’t know who to call.

  If this gets out, my career will be over before it’s even fucking started.’ Jonathan clenched his teeth. ‘Why, oh why, did I ever take up with Rupert again? I must have been mad. The two of them were getting out of hand, and this is the result. You don’t know the half of it...’

  He was nearly hysterical and Briony said, ‘Oh, shut up, Jonathan, let me think.’

  She paced the room for a while.

  ‘I’m going to ring Mariah. She’ll help you get away. The main thing is to remove you from here. OK?’

  Jonathan nodded. ‘You’re so good to me, Briony! I knew you’d know what to do.’

  ‘Go upstairs and get dressed. I have a couple of calls to make.

  Come on, get your arse in gear!’

  She rang Mariah then picked up Peter’s telephone book and dialled Lord Hockley’s number. She spoke to him personally and afterwards sat smoking ’til Mariah arrived. Her driver took Jonathan home and the two women waited in silence for Lord Hockley. Both knew that this was something they could use to their advantage, though neither voiced the thought out loud. Briony, herself, was numb, Eileen’s recent death still an open wound. When Lord Hockley arrived she had the grace to feel deeply sorry for the man.

  She walked wordlessly up to the bedroom and opened the door. Lord Hockley, who had fought in the Boer War and had witnessed first hand the tragedy in the trenches of the Great War, took one look at the naked boy on the bed and, putting his hand to his heart, made a deep moaning sound that seemed to be pulled from his strong barrel chest.

  Then, entering the room, he took the knife from beside his son and threw it at the wall. Its bone handle made a loud cracking sound as it broke under the blow. Then he began to belabour Peter, pulling him up by his short-cropped hair and slapping him across the face, the shoulders, anywhere on the boy’s body he could make contact. He finished by kicking him in the chest.

  ‘You animal! You filthy little animal! Is this what I brought you up for? This - carnage!’

  Rupert watched the scene through glazed eyes.

  Lord Hockley turned to Briony and said: ‘And where do you fit into all this, eh? Only I’ve washed my hands of the blighter if you’re thinking of getting money out of me. I want no more to do with him. This is the end! The finish!’

  Briony said in a low voice, ‘I want nothing. I was called here by a mutual friend. I thought that as this Peter was your son, you’d better sort it all out. I want nothing from you, nothing. Except for you to finish what your son started.’

  She saw Hockley deflate in front of her eyes. His whole body seemed to sag.

  ‘Come on, let’s go downstairs, get out of this. It’s up to you now. But if I was you I’d try and help your son, because that boy is dead and nothing is going to bring him back. He’s more than likely a pick up, so I shouldn’t imagine anyone’s looking for him just yet.’

  Briony’s sensible words penetrated the man’s distress. But an innate sense of justice fought with his natural instinct to protect not just his child, but his family’s good name. He followed Briony down the stairs.

  Mariah poured them all a drink and Hockley swallowed his straight down and held out his glass for more.

  ‘I gave that boy everything, but even as a child... His mother encouraged it, you know. She’s the real culprit. Should have let me send him overseas, put him in the army like his forebears, but no. Her darling boy had to be encouraged, he was artistic. Artistic, my eye! He’s plain unnatural, an offence to the eyes of God. My only son, can you believe that? My only son. And look where he is now...’

  Briony heard the sorrow in his voice and felt an urge to flee. To get away from this house and its occupants. She had enough to think about as it was. Her Eileen was dead, and Peter Hockley was alive. It was so unfair.

  ‘Shall I call the police then?’ She hoped he would say yes. She wanted Peter Hockley to pay the proper penalty for the ending of that young life. But she knew that even if she telephoned the Chief Inspector, it would be hushed up, because Hockley was a newspaper baron and he had clout. A great deal of clout. He shook his head slowly.

  ‘No. I will make sure everything’s taken care of. By the way, who was the mutual friend you spoke of?’

  Briony shook her head.

  ‘That’s for me to know, and you to find out. If you’ll excuse us, Lord Hockley? It’s been a long night and I have a feeling it’s going to be a very long day.’

  Mariah finished her drink. As they went to leave, Lord Hockley’s voice stayed them.

  ‘Why didn’t you phone the police?’

  Briony looked back and answered truthfully. ‘Would it have made a difference? Let’s face it, there’s no way this is ever going to come to light is there? You might be angry with your son now but you won’t want him banged up, no more than I would my child. No matter what they’d done. But I trust you remember in years to come that we kept quiet about this, Lord Hockley. That we didn’t go to the other newspapers, the ones you don’t control.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve done our bit. The rest, I’m afraid, is up to you.’

  Briony was still thinking of the scene she had witnessed earlier in the day as the priest spoke his last words over Eileen. Kerry and Bernadette held Molly between them, and Briony stood away from the small group alone. Eileen’s death heralded an end of an era. Never again would the five sisters be together. She heard Rosalee crying and felt the sting of tears herself. Marcus was holding Rosalee to his chest. No one was ever sure exactly how much she understood. If they cried, she cried; if they laughed, she laughed. Today she was breaking her heart. Maybe somewhere in her mind she realised what was going on. Or maybe she just felt the deep unhappiness around her.

  Sister Mary Magdalene was also crying; her young face, so soft and virginal-looking, seemed out of place here.

  So many people had turned out for the funeral, Briony had found it hard to believe at first. It seemed that every woman in the East End of London had gathered at The Chase graveyard to mourn her. The Chase was on the old Romford Road, surrounded by countryside. Eileen would be pleased to be laid to rest here, Briony was sure of that.

  The cortège had grown longer and longer as people joined it all along the route until now there was a large silent crowd. Briony knew it was their way of lending support. Their way of looking after one of their own.

  She swallowed down the hot burning tears with difficulty. She felt a soft touch and looked round to see Tommy standing beside her. Biting her lip, she held on to him, feeling the strength of him through her coat, feeling a peacefulness settle over her.

  Father McNamara blessed the coffin, Briony threw in the first lump of dirt and a single white rose. All the sisters followed suit, even Rosalee. Molly had to be taken from the graveside, her wailing becoming hysterical.

  As Briony stood by her sister’s open grave people filed past her, murmuring condolences. Everyone knew she had
taken on Eileen’s boys. It was common knowledge, and proved once more that Briony Cavanagh was one of them, for all her money and her businesses. Local hard men paid their respects to her personally, looking out of place in their suits and clean shirts.

  Tommy finally walked her from the graveside and over to his car. He drove her back to her house himself. In the car Briony shed the tears she had been holding back. Tommy let her cry, knowing it could only be for the good. Briony bottled up too much. She needed to let off steam. Then outside her house he took her in his arms and comforted her.

  Briony, smelling the familiar smell of him, allowed herself to be held. Never had she felt so alone in all her life, and never had she been more grateful for Tommy’s company.

  Molly was drunk, stinking drunk. She was so drunk she could barely move in her chair. Briony got Marcus and Tommy to carry her mother up to bed. She stripped Molly with difficulty and slipped the quilt over her. As she looked down on her mother’s swollen face she felt a tremor of love for her. Abel had taken his mother home earlier. Mother Jones would always come first with him, and Molly knew that and was hurt by it. Even at her daughter’s funeral, his mother had taken first place. Briony felt her mother’s pain as surely as if it was her own.

  As she walked from the bedroom she saw Tommy standing on the landing, leaning against the wall.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Tommy, I appreciate it.’

  He smiled, his familiar little grin, and Briony felt her heart lurch.

  ‘Would you like to see the boys?’

  Tommy nodded and followed Briony into their room. He looked down at the two babies and laughed aloud. ‘Oh, Briony, ain’t they small?’

  She nodded, placing a finger in each child’s right hand.

  ‘But they’re strong. They’ve got a good grip. Poor Eileen. Two beautiful children and she’ll never see them grow up...’