Goodnight Lady

by Martina Cole

Davey pushed a five-pound note over the bar and said, ‘Fucking ladies? I don’t see no ladies in here, love.’

  Maisie snatched the money from the bar and put his change in a puddle of beer deliberately.

  Davey looked at the soaking wet money and Maisie smiled at him sarcastically.

  Davey poked a finger in her direction and said, ‘You pick that money up and you sort it for me. Now.’

  Pete and Jamie sighed loudly.

  ‘Leave this to us, Maise. Give it a rest, Davey. You’re out of order.’

  He turned on Jamie and sneered. ‘Don’t you tell me when I’m out of order, mate. Just because you work for those pair of Cavanaghs, the nancy boys. Don’t you get fucking lairy with me!’

  Pete stepped towards Davey and Jamie held him back, both serious now. All their laughing and joking gone.

  Jamie poked a finger at Davey and said quietly, ‘You’re pissed so I’ll forget what you just said, Davey boy. Get yourself off home.’

  The bar was quiet now, people watching the proceedings with eager eyes.

  Davey was very drunk and all caution was gone as he said in a high girlish voice, ‘What’s the matter, boys? You scared that pair of fucking paper hats the Cavanaghs will hear what I said about them? Are we scared they might get their aunties after me? Oh, they can’t get all their aunties, can they? The big fucking nutty one died the other day! Good job and all. I wish they’d died with her. Fucking bits of kids telling me ...ME ... Davey Mitchell, what to do! I worked this town when they were still a twinkle in their father’s fucking eye!’

  The whole bar was silent now and Jamie shook his head. ‘You must be out of your mind.’

  ‘What, you gonna tell them what I said then? Run and tell them, go on. See if I care!’

  Peter McCain pushed Davey hard in the chest. ‘We won’t have to, you stupid bastard, the whole fucking pub heard you! What you on, Davey, eh? A fucking death wish?’

  Davey walked unsteadily to the door of the pub. Looking at all the faces around him, he laughed out loud.

  ‘Bollocks to the Cavanaghs! They don’t scare me.’

  Tommy heard about Davey before the twins and it bothered him. He had wanted to speak to Briony about them for a while, but the time never seemed right. Now he knew that Davey Mitchell was dead. That was a certainty. Boysie and Daniel would not take such public humiliation. And Davey Mitchell, drunk or sober, should have known that.

  But the twins had to be made aware that you didn’t just kill people willy-nilly. They were far too violent for the wrong reasons. Even a small debt was called in with a violence that was astounding to the hardened men of London. A few hundred pounds and Boysie or Daniel would have arms or legs broken. They had crippled someone over seventy quid. It wasn’t as if there was any rhyme or reason to it. People who owed them hefty amounts of wedge were just left, then one day Boysie called the debt in. No warning, nothing. It was ludicrous. That sort of thing would be their downfall.

  He would talk to them. For Briony’s sake, it was the least he could do. Because if she lost those boys, it would finish her. They were her boys, her babies, no matter what they did to anyone. However big they became, to her they were her Eileen’s children, and she would never see any wrong in them. No matter what they did.

  Briony was heading for a fall, and deep inside Tommy knew no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t even hope to catch her.

  Boysie went into the Chapel of Rest. Daniel was already there, sitting by the open coffin. His face was pale, his eyes dead. He put out a hand to his brother and Boysie grasped it, holding it tight.

  ‘Poor old Auntie Rosalee. Look at her, Boysie. She never done no one a day’s harm.’

  ‘Nah. I know that. The Aunt’s taken it really bad.’ Boysie’s voice was low. He looked at Rosalee in the coffin for a few seconds and then said, ‘I thought I might find you here, Danny boy. I came earlier today, after I saw that slag Mitchell. I suppose you’ve heard?’

  Danny’s face darkened in anger. ‘I heard.’

  ‘So what do you say we pay him a little visit?’

  Danny turned in the chair and squeezed his brother’s hand‘til it hurt. Then he half smiled as he said, ‘What do you think?’

  The twins locked identical blue eyes for what seemed an age. Then Boysie laughed deeply.

  ‘I thought you’d say that. Let’s go.’

  Mariah came to Briony’s just after six. She kissed her friend gently on the cheek, nodded to Tommy, and then after she had been given a brandy, spoke what was on her mind.

  ‘Listen, Bri, I know you’ve got a lot of hag at the moment but I must talk to you.’ She paused. ‘It’s about the twins.’

  Briony raised an eyebrow and Tommy looked down at his drink, grateful to Mariah for doing what he should have done. He knew, he knew exactly, what she was going to say.

  ‘What about the boys, Mariah?’ Briony’s voice was neutral.

  ‘That prat Davey Mitchell slagged them off this afternoon in The Volunteer. I mean, really slagged them off. He made remarks about Rosalee as well.’

  Briony frowned. ‘Go on.’

  Mariah took a large gulp of her drink.

  ‘The word on the street is that the boys are after him, rooting for blood. You’ve got to stop them. I had a whisper today from an Old Bill at Bethnal Green. They want them, Briony. They want them badly. If they touch Mitchell, they’re banged up. Over with, finished, done, and there’s nothing we can do about it. All our judges and politicians will do no good. Murder isn’t something they want to get involved with.’

  Tommy was impressed with the way Mariah just laid it on the line for Briony. She didn’t dress it up as he would have done. She just told it like it was.

  Briony silently digested what Mariah said to her.

  ‘They’re out of control, Briony. I’ve said this to you before, you must put the hard word on them. Now. Before it’s too late. If they top Mitchell, they’ll put themselves away, and all the donations to charity and all the good feeling from the East End won’t mean a tinker’s fart.’

  ‘What did Mitchell say about Rosalee?’

  Mariah waved a hand at her and said dismissively, ‘Oh, a load of old crap. He was pissed out of his head. Anyway, what does it matter? Words can’t hurt her. Nothing can hurt her, Bri ...’

  Briony stood up and put down her glass. She lit herself a cigarette slowly, drawing the smoke deep into her lungs before blowing it out.

  Mariah sighed heavily. ‘For Christ’s sake, Tommy, you tell her, will you? If she won’t listen to me, she might at least listen to you.’

  ‘Mariah’s right, Briony. You have to try and stop them from going near Mitchell. It’s the talk of the streets. If they touch him they’re away. Pure and simple. I was going to talk to them myself, I wasn’t really sure what to do.’

  Briony nodded slightly, her eyes far away as she said, ‘You leave the boys to me.’

  Bemadette was sitting in her kitchen eating a large slice of cake. Bernadette was a comfort eater, she knew that, and the knowledge annoyed her. She would balloon in weight if she wasn’t careful. The house was as quiet as the grave. The girls were at her mother’s; Mother Jones was on the mend and demanding all sorts. The girls enjoyed helping their gran, and Molly enjoyed their company. Liselle was still hardly speaking to her and this thought made Bernadette laugh.

  Liselle was like something from a novel. She really thought she was it. Just because she was young and her mother was famous, she thought she was something special. Well, all she was was a half-chat!

  Bernadette knew she was being vindictive and nasty, and knew she was ashamed deep down, but, oh, it did feel good. Who the hell did they think they all were anyway?

  They were nothing; none of them was anyone of importance. Not Briony or Kerry or Liselle or that long-legged tart who was even at this moment with her husband - the two-timing two-faced git!

  Finishing the last piece of cake, Bernadette poured herself another large whisky. She drank it strai
ght down and the wooziness made her want to laugh. She looked bleary-eyed around her pristine kitchen and then, pulling herself from her chair, walked over to a long wooden shelf that held an assortment of teapots, her lovely teapots that she had collected over the years and which had miraculously escaped the Blitz. With one swipe of her hand she destroyed them. They smashed to the floor, their shattered pieces scattering to all corners of the large room.

  Stepping through the mess carefully, she went out of the kitchen and through the hallway to her drawing room. There she took her wedding photos down and stamped on them. She looked at Marcus’s face smiling up at her and ground the heel of her shoe into it with every ounce of strength she had.

  A little while later she walked unsteadily up her neatly polished stairs and went into her bedroom. Then she opened Marcus’s big heavy wardrobe and began pulling out his clothes.

  Boysie and Daniel were shocked to see Briony walk into their gambling club in Canning Town.

  ‘Hello, boys. Surprised to see me?’

  Boysie stood up and offered her his chair. Briony sat down, her body leaden with fatigue.

  ‘I hear you’re both looking for Davey Mitchell? He mouthed off about you and a few other choice things in The Volunteer.’

  Daniel lit a cigarette and passed it to his aunt. Briony took it gratefully.

  ‘He’s out of order. He needs a few lessons in good manners.’

  She nodded. ‘I agree totally. But not yet, boys. You’re burying Rosalee tomorrow. I don’t want any cloud over her funeral. Get that, the pair of you. There’ll be no violence before her funeral or after it. It’s a mark of respect.’

  Daniel opened his mouth to speak but Briony held up her hand.

  ‘I ain’t here to argue, boy, I’m here to tell you. No violence, nothing. Let’s get this funeral out of the way first.’

  Both boys looked at the desk. The scratched wooden surface suddenly seemed fascinating as they digested what their aunt had said. Briony watched them both, feeling sadness at the way they had turned out, yet no real surprise. They were of her blood, they had the same wants and needs as her. They were indeed more her children than Eileen’s. After what Tommy had told her tonight, she was sorry for this. Heart sorry.

  It seemed they were able to terrify the very life out of people and that was wrong. That kind of violence was mindless, and totally against anything she had ever taught them. If she told them about the police being on the alert she knew they would want to take out Davey Mitchell more than ever. They would pit their considerable wits against the police, she knew that as sure as she knew who her own mother was. She also knew it would be their downfall. As Mariah said, where murder was concerned, none of their ‘friends’ would come near them. The carefully nurtured judges, the bent politicians, would leave them out in the cold. And Briony admitted to herself that that was how it should be.

  Davey Mitchell was a fool of the first water, what he had said about Rosalee was foolish in the extreme, but it didn’t warrant death. Throughout her life she had dealt with people from every walk of society, and one crucial lesson she had learnt was this: you never did anything unless it gained you something. Useless violence gained you nothing but bad feeling and hatred. She had used violence many times, over the years, but only as a last resort. That was real life. But her boys, her darling boys as she always thought of them, used their muscles and their paid muscles for all the wrong reasons.

  She had known deep inside the first time they had asserted themselves that they were gone from her. She only hoped she still held enough weight with them to make them listen to her now.

  ‘Well? Have you listened to anything I’ve said?’

  Boysie looked from the desk to Daniel and their eyes locked. Briony watched them as she had so many times when they were children. Sometimes she thought they communicated without words. That they could see into each other’s minds. They both nodded simultaneously.

  ‘I mean it, I want no trouble to mar my Rosalee’s passing. No trouble at all. If you defy me now on this, I’ll never forgive either of you.’

  Daniel smiled, one of his winning smiles, and took hold of her hand gently.

  ‘We won’t defy you, Mum. Don’t worry. It’ll all be sweet as a nut.’

  Briony nodded, feeling a surge of relief go through her veins.

  But to himself Danny was thinking: He’ll keep. Davey boy will keep. For a few weeks anyway.

  Marcus was with Davinia in one of the best ‘rooms’. The house wasn’t busy yet so they were taking advantage of the lull in her regular customers. As she sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her hair, he watched her. Once the Berwick was up and running properly, she would be one of the star attractions, and what an attraction she was. Five feet ten inches tall in her stockinged feet a forty-two-inch chest and a hand’s span waist. Her legs were so long. He had never seen legs that length in his life. Her hair was dyed, that was the only imperfection so far as he was concerned. Her skin was flawless.

  He dragged deeply on his cigarette and smiled as she faced him. Her eyes were a bright blue, with deep brown arched eyebrows that gave them a mysterious appearance. Her mouth was a perfect pout in repose and he felt a stirring inside himself once more.

  Davinia, real name Sally Jenkins, looked down at him and smiled lazily.

  ‘You’re feeling very energetic tonight.’

  Her voice was low, a controlled sexiness underlying all her words.

  Marcus laughed. He knew every wile a whore possessed, but he had to admit Davinia was really good at her craft. It annoyed him sometimes that she played him like a john, like a customer. It wasn’t that he was in love with her or anything like that. It was the principle of it. He wasn’t paying her, so she should behave herself. It was that simple. But he had noticed over the years that a lot of the girls didn’t know when to stop acting. Even her cries of delight had turned into practised moans of ecstasy lately. She had been with him six months, longer than any of his women in the past, and as delectable as she was, her days were numbered. But he wouldn’t let on to her, not just yet anyway.

  Bernadette was like some kind of automaton lately. He knew she was upset about her sister, and he also knew, but wouldn’t admit it outright, that he should have been with her tonight. But Davinia was here, and he was here, and the house was quiet. He justified himself every way he could. He noticed that his earlier interest was gone and lit himself another cigarette from the butt of the previous one.

  ‘I saw a lovely $at today. I’m thinking of renting it.’

  Marcus drew on the cigarette again. This time he looked down at the gold and green bedspread.

  ‘I can’t really afford it, but it is lovely. So dinky!’

  Marcus blew out a swirl of smoke and then looked at her again. She was still brushing her hair, looking at herself in the many mirrors strategically placed around the walls. He could see about twenty Davinias, from all angles.

  ‘Is that right, Davinia? It must be expensive if you can’t afford it.’

  She looked at him then, fully.

  ‘We could be together there, more often. Without all the other girls knowing about it.’

  Marcus cleared his throat and looked around for the ashtray. He put his cigarette out and stood up, his body still lean and firm, even at his age.

  ‘Listen, Davinia love, I don’t want a permanent relationship, I told you that at the outset. I have a wife and two children...’

  Davinia walked to him, her breasts wobbling seductively. She put her hands on to his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

  That was when pandemonium broke out.

  They both heard the screaming and shouting and looked at one another in shock and consternation. Marcus made a grab for his trousers, thinking one of the customers or the girls was getting out of order, when the bedroom door banged open.

  Marcus had never felt so shocked in all his life as when he saw Bernadette standing in that room with two suitcases. She looked at him and then at Davinia. H
e was in the process of putting on his trousers and stood there with them half up his legs, his mouth open in astonishment.

  Dropping the cases, Bernadette pulled herself straight. Looking at the two of them, she said loudly, ‘You want him, darlin’, you can have him. Washing and all!’

  Behind her women and girls of all shapes, sizes, colours and creeds watched the show with glee.

  Giving Marcus and Davinia one last look of contempt, Bernadette walked from the room, pushing through the assembled women with every ounce of dignity she could command.

  The day of Rosalee’s funeral dawned cold. It had begun to snow again during the night, and the streets were covered with a glistening whiteness, which hid the black greasy slush beneath. As they all stood around the graveside, Briony looked at her family and felt a chill of apprehension. She looked at her mother and Abel, both white-faced and tight-lipped. She knew Rosalee would be missed by her mother, missed dreadfully.

  She looked at Kerry, flanked either side by Evander and Liselle, her face, even at this early hour, showing the signs of drunkenness. Well, Kerry was going away in the New Year whether she liked it or not. She would drink herself to death otherwise. Briony guessed shrewdly that once Evander returned to the States Kerry would be happier. It had all worked out wrong for her. The knowledge of his real reason for arriving on her doorstep had broken her. Liselle, though, seemed happier to have her father nearby. She had spoken of going out to see him in America.

  She looked at Cissy’s big moon face, tears still shining on her red-veined cheeks. Poor Cissy. They had been through a lot together over the years. She felt a huge surge of emotion as she looked at her friend. Then her eyes strayed to Bernadette and Marcus. A rather quiet and shocked Marcus. Briony was pleased to see them together again. Their two daughters cried quietly for their aunt and Briony studied them. Two more Cavanagh girls, with the same looks and mannerisms. It seemed that the Cavanagh looks were hard to stamp out. All her nieces and nephews had the unmistakable look of the family, even Liselle. They were strong women and men. Mustn’t forget the Cavanagh men.