by Martina Cole
Two-faced bastard! They were all two-faced bastards. Especially Marcus. Oh, especially him. The futility of her anger made her more annoyed. The snow-covered streets annoyed her. The fact that the tall blonde bitch was even breathing annoyed her.
‘Take me back home. NOW!’
The girls were due in. Presents had to be wrapped. What a Christmas Eve this was turning out to be. As they drove she thought about Marcus and the girl. Sorry now she had seen the competition because she wasn’t sure what to do about it. How could a woman in her forties hope to compete with that? She might be the mother of Marcus’s children, might run his house, might share his bed. But she knew that as far as sex went, and she meant real sex, the kind of sex they had enjoyed those first years before the children had arrived, that was long gone. Now he lay on her for a while, told her he loved her, disposed of his seed inside her, always hoping she would get pregnant and give him a son, then he was snoring gently, no doubt dreaming about the strawberry blonde with the long, oh so long, legs.
Bernadette paid the taxi man without giving him a tip. She paid him and waited for her change, enjoying the feeling of having something over him. He pushed the change into her gloved hand roughly, giving her large house a final sneering appraisal as he drove away. She knew what he was thinking. Living in that place and not even a tip on Christmas Eve! She knew it would be his Christmas story up the pub with his mates, and at home with his wife and family. The house would get bigger with each telling until everyone thought he’d dropped her off at Buckingham Palace.
She walked up her drive, depressed, deflated, and more than anything ashamed of her actions towards the cab driver. It was Christmas Eve and she should have given him a tip. But it was Christmas Eve and she was forty-two and her husband was strupping a young girl.
That was the difference.
She opened the front door of her house to pandemonium. Rebecca and Delia were fighting in the hallway. Delia, always the volatile one, had Becky’s hair in her hand and was yanking it. Overcome by her day, Bemadette swiped the two of them with her large black leather handbag. She swiped them mercilessly, their tears and screams barely reaching her.
Holding the bag up menacingly, she shouted, ‘Get out of my sight now, the pair of you.’
Delia opened her mouth to argue and got another painful swipe from her mother’s bag.
Bernie took off her coat, hat and gloves and dumped herself into a seat. The tree was glaring at her and she felt an urge to get up and drag it from its pot and destroy it. Destroy it and everything in the house that was remotely connected with Christmas.
The dinner was nearly ready to be served and Briony and Tommy poured drinks for the assembled family. Everyone was there, and Molly, a subdued Molly, watched the black man, as she still thought of Evander, sitting with Liselle and chatting amiably to her. She shuddered every time she looked at him. It weren’t natural, she kept telling herself. But she kept her peace, knowing she was there on sufferance.
The twins chatted to Tommy and Marcus, business talk that seemed just about acceptable at the gathering as far as Molly was concerned. Kerry was drinking heavily and alone, barely bothering to answer Bernadette when she spoke to her. Delia and Becky sat on the floor like a pair of young foals, all long legs and ankle socks. Molly wished Abel was here, but he had to watch his mother. Mrs H was coming down to dinner the next day, but Molly decided she might go up for a visit before that. The drinks in this house were stingy this year. Hers was like cat’s piss.
Rosalee sat beside Briony, a weak rum punch in her hand. Briony noticed she had difficulty in holding the glass and took it from her gently, holding it to her lips. Rosalee sipped it and Briony smiled at her.
‘All right, Rosalee?’
‘Bri ... Bri ...’
Her voice was lower than usual. She held her right arm to her chest, her expression pained.
Briony decided that as soon as Christmas was over she was taking her sister back to the Mile End Hospital and getting her the once over by Dr Matherson. He liked Rosalee and was good with her. She wasn’t right, and Briony wondered if maybe her sister was getting her change. Maybe it was coming early? She seemed to sweat an awful lot lately, as cold as it was out, and she seemed to be bloated around the face though she was losing weight. Her arm seemed to pain her as well. There was something not right with her.
Briony kissed her face gently and Rosalee smiled, looking more like her old self.
Briony’s eyes strayed to Tommy, her own personal present. Together they made one hell of a team. There was a knock at the front door and she got up to greet Mariah. Now everyone was here they could sit down to eat.
‘Come in and get your coat off. We’re eating soon. Have you been to the houses, is that why you’re late?’ Briony raised an eyebrow and Mariah laughed.
‘Well, let’s just say I had a quick peep! It’s always a busy night and I thought I’d give the girls a bit of moral support.’
‘You’re coming to Midnight Mass, I take it?’
Mariah slipped off her coat and displayed a white and gold evening dress that was gaudy and tight and much too young for her. ‘Of course. If Mary Magdalene was good enough for old JC, I’m sure I am.’
Briony laughed at the blasphemy, though she wouldn’t have if anyone else had said it.
Bernadette was quiet and Briony found her eyes straying to her throughout dinner. She hardly ate anything, and there was a tracery of fine lines around her eyes that was more pronounced than usual. She wished Bernie would smarten herself up. It wasn’t as if she had no time, everything was done for her. She could spend time on herself if she wanted to.
She watched Bernie watching her husband. Putting two and two together, she sighed. Marcus had played away from home for years. Bernie knew, she had discussed it with Briony on more than one occasion. But it had never really bothered her until now. She had always been sure she was the main recipient of his affections and that had been enough. Briony had once offered to put the hard word on him and Bernie had laughed. Marcus was too damned good-looking for his own good, she had said. It was natural women would want him, and that was OK with her as long as he stuck to the brasses and was discreet. Briony had admired her sister then. She wondered what had changed and decided to keep her eye on Bernie. If she could help, then she would.
The twins were chatting with Evander. Briony watched them. It was funny, but the more they saw of him the more they liked him. They could listen to his tales of America for hours. Probing for details about the country, about the way of life there, the cars and the clothes. The States fascinated them.
At ten the dinner was nearly over, with just dessert, coffee and brandy to be served. Briony was pleased with the way the meal had gone, but troubled by the different undercurrents. Tommy caught her eye and winked and she winked back saucily.
Bernadette saw the exchange and it depressed her beyond measure. Everyone treated her with contempt. Everyone.
It was just so unfair. She had tried to be respectable, she had tried to be good, and what had it got her? Nothing, that’s what. Her husband was having sexual gymnastics with a girl young enough to be his daughter, her sister, a sister who was a madam of all things, had her old beau back. Even that drunken Kerry, Miss Golden Voice, was sitting around the table with a bloody great black man who had fathered her child. Her illegitimate child at that! Now he was treated like visiting royalty and Bernie was overlooked as usual. Overlooked and made to feel like a joke. All of them, Rosalee included, had made a hash of their lives in one way or another, were not even respectable, and here she was, the only one to be wedded lawfully, and she had all this on her plate!
The old Bernie was resurfacing with each passing second. The Bernie who was jealous of everyone - her sisters, her friends, anyone. Who wished bad on the whole world.
St Vincent’s church was jam packed as it was every Christmas Eve. Most Irish men did what they called their devotion, Christmas, Easter and the Apostle Saints days, and without fail Ash Wednesday and
All Souls.
In the front pew Briony held Rosalee’s hand and pointed out to her, as she did every year, the wooden pieces of the nativity. Rosalee listened with the same rapt attention as she did every year. When the priest finally arrived, all the grubby altar boys were in place, some smelling suspiciously of cigarettes.
The Mass began. The twins and all the Cavanaghs took it seriously. A calm fell on to the church that was to Briony’s mind a little piece of heaven on earth.
Beside her, Rosalee was gasping and Briony held her hand gently. The Mass was long as always on Christmas Eve, and the number attending Communion was great. Rosalee was asleep against Briony’s arm. Rather than wake her sister, she got Tommy to take her weight while she took Communion herself.
He looked down on her, and as he did, his face blanched. Her head rolled to the side, and her eyes, half-closed, saw nothing. He realised immediately she was dead. Putting his arms around her he pulled her against his coat. He sat like that until the end of the Mass, holding back a great urge to cry for the woman who had known nothing of malice, of the world, who was still an innocent.
Just after the final blessing Father Tierney asked the congregation to listen to his last few words with serious attention. He then cleared his throat.
‘In church this evening we have a woman who has been with this community since a child.’ Everyone looked at Briony. ‘Well, she’s always been pretty free with her money, as we all know.’ There was scattered laughter at this and Briony felt her face burning. ‘Now this same women and her two nephews, the terrible twins as I called them when they were my altar boys...’ He looked at the twins in a mock stern way over his pince nez glasses and there was more laughter. ‘Well, the fact is, these three have donated over twenty thousand pounds to my orphans’ fund.’ He paused for the intake of breath he knew would be forthcoming and wasn’t disappointed. ‘So I wanted to thank them publicly and to make a point of acknowledging the respect I have for them all. Firstly as good Catholics, and secondly as very, very good and kind people. The Cavanaghs.’
His Irish voice rose on the last two words and the church went wild. The clapping was loud and long.
Briony and the twins sat stunned at what the priest had done. Not one of them had expected it. Father Tierney came down and made the sign of the cross in front of the altar and then shook hands with the twins and Briony, thanking them once more.
Tommy sat supporting Rosalee, his terrible secret still untold. He waited until the church began to empty before he crooked his forefinger at Boysie and whispered the secret for the first time. He looked at Rosalee in Tommy’s arms and, kneeling down, put a hand gently to her face. Then, to the amazement of the priest, he began to sob, loud sobbing that caught the attention of everyone around him. Kerry, drunk as she was, took in the news quicker than anyone else. She sat crying silently alone until Evander, still smarting over the shock he had caused to the congregation, put his arm around her and tried as best he could to console her.
Briony was stunned. She sat beside her sister while the priest held the purple stole to her and whispered the prayers for the dead.
Her Rosalee was dead.
Her Rosalee whom she had loved all her life. Had cared for, fed with frozen fingers in the basements. Had played with and crooned to. Whom she had loved as Rosalee. Just Rosalee, her sister and her friend. She was gone forever.
Poor Rosalee, people had always said. They had never realised just how rich she was.
Chapter Forty
‘I don’t care if it is Christmas, I don’t care if Christ himself is coming here to gamble, I want me money, Davey, and I want it now.’ Boysie’s face was dark with anger.
Davey Mitchell was terrified, but made a good show of hiding this fact.
‘Look, Boysie, I borrowed the money and you’re charging me interest on it. I’ll pay it, right. It’ll be paid.’
Boysie clenched his fists and held them up in front of his face.
Davey felt a thrill of terror.
‘Don’t mug me off, Davey, don’t even think about mugging me off. You borrowed a grand, now you owe two and a half. I want that by New Year’s Eve or I’ll hurt you. Really hurt you.’
The last was said low and Davey swallowed hard. ‘You’ll have it.’
He looked all injured innocence and Boysie began to breathe heavily through his nose. Davey Mitchell annoyed him beyond measure. He was so cocksure. He had borrowed a thousand pounds to open his own spieler, Boysie and Daniel had lent him the money in good faith. They knew, from whispers on the street, that the spieler was doing very well, so where was their money? The interest was rolling up by the day, but that had not deterred Davey in the least. He still gave them a load of old fanny every time they sent someone to pick up what was their money after all. Now Boysie had visited personally and he was annoyed. Deeply annoyed. Davey Mitchell had best watch that big Yid mouth of his, and that cocksure attitude, because he needed putting down a peg and the mood Boysie was in, he would be the man to do it. No trouble.
Boysie poked him in the chest, hard.
‘I’d better have it, Davey, or your guts will be strewn all over fucking Bethnal Green. Right?’
Davey nodded. But he still didn’t look as if he was really bothered and Boysie fought down an urge to smash him in the face.
He left the little office and walked through the games room. As he left the club and climbed into his car he took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He sat still for a couple of minutes and decided he would make arrangements with Davey after the New Year for a larger cut of his takings. He might even just take the club from him. That would teach the bloody ponce a lesson he wouldn’t forget in a hurry!
Smiling grimly now, he pulled away from the kerb. His next stop was a man called Liam O’Docherty, a bookie. Liam owed them over two grand. He was a good payer usually, but that didn’t deter Boysie. He would go and tell him he wanted his money, and quick.
He had to do something, and this was as good a something as anything else he could think of.
Unlike Daniel, who was still ensconced in his bedroom moping after Rosalee’s death, Boysie needed excitement. He needed action. And by Christ he would find it if it killed him!
Briony and Tommy were sorting out the final arrangements for Rosalee’s funeral. The coffin was chosen, the shroud was a delicate pink and white, the rosary in her hands of olive wood brought from Jerusalem and given to Briony by the priest. It had been blessed by the Pope himself.
As Briony sorted out food and other arrangements she fought an urge to scream. Every time she thought of Rosalee in that church, dead and silent, she wanted to scream. She was to be buried beside Eileen, which helped. At least they would be together. All the Cavanaghs would be together in the end.
Tommy saw Briony’s haunted face and kissed her gently. Briony put her arms around him. She was exhausted from lack of sleep and he pulled her close. Oh, what would she have done without him? He had been like a rock for her. Had held her up when she thought she would just collapse, because somehow all her strength seemed to have drained out of her. That phenomenal strength that was her trademark, that made her the woman she was, seemed to have disappeared overnight until now she found it hard even to pick up a phone. Mariah had told her to take things easy, leave everything to her, and Briony was grateful. Even work had lost its usual appeal. Was not enough to take her mind off her sister’s death. Rosalee had been such an integral part of her life. It was hard to imagine life without her.
The doctor said her heart had given out on her. Just given up. She had had a massive heart attack which accounted for her holding her arm; he said she had probably had pain along her arms and her chest and couldn’t communicate that fact. Briony berated herself for not taking her sister to a doctor immediately. For not realising that she was really ill. For not taking enough interest in her.
Tommy had ordered strong hot coffee, and as he poured Briony out a steaming cup she once more blessed him for his support. How on earth
had she done without him all these years? How could she have let him go?
It amazed her to think she could ever have contemplated living her life without him.
Davey Mitchell was in The Volunteer in Barking, drinking with two brothers called McCain. They were both men well respected in their own right as hard men, but also well liked because they were jokers. Both had a great sense of humour and they told jokes non-stop, each vying with the other to be the funnier. They worked for the twins, and were happy to do so. They had been friends of Davey Mitchell’s for many years. Davey sat at the bar drinking large scotches and laughing at their jokes.
Pete McCain was telling one as usual.
‘So this bloke goes in the hairdresser’s and says, “I want me hair cut with a large hole on top of me head, scissor marks all around the sides, and a fringe that’s five different lengths.” This big poofy hairdresser says, “I can’t do that, sir!” And the bloke says, “Why not? That’s how you fucking cut it last time!”’
Jamie McCain busted up with laughter as did Davey, Pete McCain, and half the bar.
Davey ordered another round of drinks as Jamie McCain said, ‘How about this then? This bloke is at the funeral of an eighty-year-old man, and there’s loads of young girls around the grave crying. Right? So this young bloke like, he says, “What they all crying for?” And the undertaker he says, right, “Well, the old boy was a really good lover, see. All the young girls liked him.” So this bloke says, “Get out of it, you’re mucking me about!” And the other undertaker says, “He ain’t, son, I had to give him a wank to get the coffin lid on!”’
Davey and half the bar busted up with laughter again. Maisie, the large barmaid, served them their drinks tight-lipped and Jamie grabbed her hand.
‘Sorry, Maisie, that one was a bit near the mark.’
‘You just remember there’s ladies in here, Jamie McCain.’
