by Chris Curran
He touched his finger to her lips for a moment, shaking his head. ‘I can wait. Just you try and stop me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been thinking. About what happened with Dad after Sid attacked me.’
The smell of tweed and wee and rough cloth hurting her face. She put down her tea, hand to her throat where a surge of acid was burning it.
Marcus touched her knee. ‘It’s all right. Take your time.’
A deep breath pushing away those horrible thoughts. ‘I think I’ve managed to remember it all. Dad came in and stopped him. But he was so cold, and sounded so angry, I thought he was blaming me.’ Marcus moved towards her, but she raised her hand. She had to get through this. ‘It was all right next day, though. He called me a good girl and said he was leaving Sid.’ Marcus kissed her ear, and she wanted to turn to him to kiss him properly, but she had to keep going. ‘I already knew they were breaking up because I overheard them arguing.’
‘So it must have been Sid who reported him to the police. If your dad was going to leave him he had nothing to lose, the vindictive bastard.’ He stood up, beginning to button his shirt. ‘Look why don’t we go out for breakfast. Down to that greasy spoon by the river? You can talk as I drive.’
She grabbed his hand and pulled him down to sit beside her again. ‘I need to tell you this now.’ There was a flutter of birds just outside the window. It sounded as if they were fighting.
Marcus looked hard at her. ‘What is it?’
‘When Sid and Dad were arguing, Sid did threaten him with the police, but not just for being homosexual.’ Her heart thumped loud in her ears. She longed for Marcus to say something, to stop her telling him and making it true, but he just put his hand on her shoulder, rubbing gently.
‘He was going to accuse Dad of killing my mum.’
Marcus’s hand stopped moving. ‘What?’
There was a roar like a stormy sea in her ears and her throat was almost closed up. ‘And he might have been right. You see, I found a bloodstained mat under their bed the morning after my mum disappeared.’
Marcus twisted onto his knees to look her full in the face. ‘You’ve never said anything about this before,’ he said.
‘It was gone next day and I told myself I’d imagined it, but when Cora came to see me the other day she said she found it and disposed of it. She swore she didn’t tell Sid, but she must have been lying because that’s what he threatened to go to the police about.’
Marcus scratched his head. ‘Well why didn’t he?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. He turned nasty because Dad was going to leave him. But without the mat there was no real evidence. And even if they’d believed him Cora could have got into trouble for throwing it away. And I know Sid wasn’t keen on the police so I think he decided to report Dad for being homosexual instead. That way he could do it anonymously.’
‘Let me get this straight.’ Marcus pressed his fingers to the crease between his eyebrows. ‘You heard Sid say this? About the mat and your mum?’ She nodded, swallowing hard, but that burning sensation was still in her throat. ‘So what did your dad say?’
‘That was the worst thing. He said Sid was lying, but he sounded so upset I didn’t know what to think. I was longing for him to give some kind of explanation. But he didn’t. And I never dared to ask him about it.’
Chiswick – February 1956
Dad doesn’t tell her what his ideas for making money are, but after breakfast he goes to his room. ‘Need to write a few letters and sort some things out, Joycie love.’ An hour or so later, while she’s tidying the living room, he goes out to post the letters and make a call from the phone box on the corner.
Joycie checks the old biscuit tin where they keep the housekeeping money. Dad said they need to be careful, but she decides to make his favourite tea tonight: pork bangers with crispy onions. Walking to the shops she keeps telling herself everything will be all right now. The pavements are icy, but it’s sunny and the sky is a clear pale blue.
The butcher is laughing with the woman in front of her and when the bell clangs as she comes in they carry on laughing, looking at her so she has to join in. She doesn’t know what the joke was, but it’s nice to laugh. When it’s her turn the butcher says, ‘Cold enough for you, ducks?’ as he wraps up the sausages.
She answers, ‘Just about,’ and he laughs and puts a couple of slices of spam in a bag. ‘There you are – make yourself a nice sandwich, eh.’
As she walks back she feels almost cheerful. When they have the sandwiches Dad might tell her about his plans and it will be just like always.
But when she gets to their lodgings she stops halfway up the stairs. The door to their rooms is wide open and she can hear men’s voices. At first she wonders if they’re something to do with the ideas Dad’s got for finding work, but the way they sound scares her.
She forces herself to go up and stand in the open doorway. Two big men in heavy suits fill the tiny living room and Joycie’s nose wrinkles at the musty smell coming off them. One of them turns to look at her and it’s then she sees Dad.
He’s sitting on the threadbare sofa, still in his shirtsleeves, and the expression on his face makes her want to cry. His eyes seem to have sunk deep into his head and all she can see are two dark holes. His mouth is all crumpled, as if he’s about to cry.
The men are looking at her and one of them says, ‘Who’s this then?’
She’s not sure if he’s talking to her or her dad, but Dad answers his voice so quiet she can hardly hear it. ‘That’s my daughter.’ He looks at Joycie and she can see he wants to say something to her, but the second man speaks before he can.
‘What’s he say?’ he cups his hand to his ear as he turns to the other one. ‘Couldn’t hear that.’
The first man barks out a hard laugh that scares Joycie so much she’s afraid she might wet herself. For a minute she thinks about running back out into the street, but she can’t leave Dad. ‘He says it’s his daughter, if you can believe that, the dirty sod.’ He pushes Joycie past them into the room. ‘You go and sit over there, darling. We won’t be long. And there’s no need to be scared. We’re the police, see, and we just need to have a little look around.’
Joycie can’t help staring at them, wondering if they really are policemen. She’s never seen one without a uniform. Her legs have gone all watery and she heads for the sofa to sit next to Dad, but the man says, ‘Not there. Sit at the table.’ His voice is too loud.
‘Right let’s get on with this.’
One of them goes into her dad’s bedroom while the other walks around the living room, opening drawers and cupboards. She can hear the same kind of noises coming from the bedroom.
She wants to speak to Dad, but his back is to her, very stiff and straight, and all she can see are his hands twisting around each other. After just a few minutes the policeman comes out of the bedroom waving a bundle of open envelopes in the air. He grins at Dad. ‘Nice lot of love letters from your nancy-boy, pal. Charming turn of phrase he’s got.’ He chuckles, but she can tell he isn’t joking.
The other man flaps his hand at Dad to make him stand up, and the one with the letters pushes him from behind. ‘Right, duckie, you’re coming with us.’
Dad stares at Joycie, his eyes wide. She’s never seen him scared before and she can’t breathe. He sounds like he can hardly breathe either, looking from her to the men and back again. ‘My daughter …?’
They turn to Joycie as if they’ve forgotten she’s there and one of them says, ‘We’ll get the landlady to keep an eye on her for now.’ Then he shakes his head and mutters, ‘Poor kid.’
The other man looks down at the letters he’s holding, and says, ‘Disgusting,’ and Joycie feels her armpits prickle with sweat. Do they think she’s disgusting?
Her dad is still looking at her and she knows he wants to say something, but he doesn’t speak. Her hands go to her mouth as she tries to hold back a sob. To stop them hearing, she turns to the ho
ok in the corner for Dad’s jacket. But they’re already shoving him out and she has to follow them down the stairs.
When he gets to the front door her dad pulls away from the man who’s holding his arm and stares back at her. She lifts up the jacket, but he shakes his head and says, ‘It’s all right, love, I’ll be back soon.’ But his eyes are like black pits and although he’s trying to smile his mouth doesn’t seem to work properly and his chin is wobbling up and down.
Then they push him out the door and slam it behind them, while Joycie stands on the stairs, still holding his jacket.
Chelsea – May 1965
Marcus pulled the Morgan up beside the café and smiled at her. ‘You’ve been miles away. Were you thinking about your dad again?’
She nodded and they headed inside. It was busy at this time in the morning, the air thick with the smell of frying and the windows misted over. ‘Ferry Cross the Mersey’ was playing in the background, but as they opened the door Joycie heard one of the men call out, ‘Can’t you shut that rubbish off, Linda?’
Behind the counter, Linda, a bouncy middle-aged redhead, just laughed and carried on pouring tea from her huge metal teapot. Marcus and Joycie came here quite often so she waved them to a table calling out, ‘The usual is it?’
Joycie smiled, and Marcus said, with the hint of cockney accent he always used in here, ‘That’s right, Linda. Two full breakfasts and two teas, please.’
Joycie slipped off her jacket and went to the counter to collect the tea, and as Linda passed over the thick white mugs she gestured with her head towards the man who’d called out. ‘Dead old-fashioned some of them are, but I love Gerry and the Pacemakers, don’t you?’ She didn’t seem to expect an answer, just turned away to check the pan with a, ‘Breakfasts won’t be long, I’ll bring them over.’
Joycie smiled as she took the tea back to their table. Nearly all the customers here were local workmen, and apart from the occasional, ‘Hello Marcus, hello, darling,’ she and Marcus were mostly ignored.
When she sat opposite him she rubbed a patch of window clear of steam. It didn’t make much difference because it was grey and cloudy outside, and she could barely make out the dull metal river sliding along beside the empty towpath.
Marcus pushed his mug to one side and leaned towards her. ‘Gonna tell me what you were thinking about in the car?’
She looked around, but no one could hear them because Linda had turned up the radio and was singing along to the Beatles’ ‘Ticket to Ride’, and the babble of talk from the other tables had become louder.
‘I just wish I could stop being angry with my dad for killing himself. He promised he’d be back soon, you see. And I believed him.’
Linda was heading over with their food and they both smiled and thanked her. She looked as if she was going to linger for a chat, but a man in the other corner shouted, ‘Hey, Lin, you forgot the bread.’ So she pulled a face and went back to the counter.
Joycie poked at her fried egg. Linda always did a lovely breakfast, but she had no appetite. Marcus, cutting his sausage very neatly into even segments, said, ‘He couldn’t help it. Think about his friend and what it was like when he was arrested.’
‘I know, and if it was bad for Dennis I’m sure it was even worse for Dad. He was older and he was on remand for longer.’ She shook her head. ‘Not that long, though. Only a few weeks. Never went to trial or anything.’
‘And they told you right away?’
‘That he’d died? Yes, but I didn’t find out he’d killed himself until the funeral. We had the wake at Irene and Deirdre’s flat and I overheard it then.’
The room is stuffy and the collar of her new black dress rubs her neck. Irene has asked her to bring the sandwiches from the kitchen and when she comes back in she stands by the door for a minute because people are moving about, holding sherry glasses or pouring beer from bottles, and she’s scared she’ll knock into someone.
She looks at the sandwiches – Deirdre has stuck little paper flags to show what’s in them: ham and tomato, egg, sardine – her tummy rumbles, but she also feels a bit sick and the smell of booze in the air is horrible.
Then she hears a woman’s voice. ‘Poor old Charlie. Terrible way to go.’ And she stops breathing and presses back against the door, trying to make herself invisible.
A man answers. ‘Coward’s way out if you ask me.’
The woman again. ‘Oh, Ron, that’s an awful thing to say. He must have been desperate.’ She lowers her voice, but Joycie can still hear. ‘Irene says he hung himself with his bed sheets, poor soul.’
‘Still, it was suicide and in my day they wouldn’t even bury you in the churchyard if you did that.’
Joycie forced herself to look at Marcus. ‘I made Irene admit it afterwards. I was furious with her for keeping it from me, which was so unfair. But then I was pretty awful to her and Deirdre in those first weeks.’
Marcus had been working steadily through his food and he rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and took a glug of tea, saying, ‘I suppose it’s possible he didn’t really kill himself.’
She swallowed the sliver of sausage she seemed to have been chewing for ages. ‘But he did it with a bed sheet. How could that be an accident?’
‘Well we’re pretty sure he was beaten by the cops, aren’t we? So what if he died of that? They’d easily be able to fake a suicide I should think.’ It was a terrible thought and yet, and yet … It would mean he hadn’t wanted to desert her. Marcus reached for her hand. ‘And prisons are violent places, so it could have been one of the inmates, or even a group of them.’
He must have seen the surge of horror she felt as the scene flashed through her mind because he brought her fingers to his lips, saying, ‘Sorry, Joycie, I’m sorry.’
She glanced out of the window, which was already steaming up again. A scruffy little dog was trotting past all on its own and it stopped to chew at something on the towpath before looking up at her and scuttling away.
Chapter Thirteen
Tommy Green turned up with the dog, Fatima, next day. She was beautiful, her eyes peeping through long pale hair. Joycie took her straight into the kitchen where she’d put out a bowl of food and some water.
Tommy was talking quietly to Marcus, but she heard him say, ‘So I’ve been spreading the news about you minding your own business in future. And be sure you do that, mate. Keep an eye on your girl too because if you let me down it won’t just be the pair of you in the frame.’
As Joycie came back into the living room she said, ‘So who is this Bill? And who does he work for?’
Tommy looked at Marcus. ‘I told you to keep all this to yourself. No point in frightening the young lady.’
‘I’m sorry, Tommy,’ she said, ‘but it’s me Bill’s been following and I want to know why.’
Marcus smiled and shook his head at Tommy. ‘Better tell her, mate. She won’t give up.’
With a sigh Tommy sat on the sofa, nodding as Marcus went over to the drinks cabinet and held up a bottle of Scotch. ‘You’ll have heard of Ernie Georgiou?’ he said. When Joycie shook her head he gave an even heavier sigh and gulped at his Scotch. ‘Gang leader, darling. His firm has rackets going all over the place. Bill was one of his faces for years.’ He smiled when she shook her head again. ‘One of the big names in his mob, I mean.’
‘And does this Ernie Georgiou have connections with Sid Sergeant?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
Joycie leaned forward. ‘Please, Tommy.’
He looked pleadingly at Marcus, who was crouched down stroking the dog, but Marcus just raised his hands in a there’s nothing I can do gesture.
Tommy took another swallow of Scotch and turned back to Joycie. ‘The thing is, love, Sid and his lady wife go way back with Ernie. During the war Sid was resident comic at one of Ernie’s nightclubs. And Ernie never forgets a friend. So if Sid came asking him to put the frights on someone Ernie would get one of his faces onto it – no questions asked.
And if he’s picked Bill then you’re honoured. He’s the best of the lot.’
‘The kind of honour we could do without, eh Tommy?’ said Marcus as Tommy drained his glass and stood to go.
‘That’s right. And the funny thing is, it’s common knowledge Bill decided to go legit a few years ago. Settled down and opened a couple of betting shops. So it really put the wind up me when you mentioned his name. Because it looks like he’s come out of retirement especially for you.’
Tommy turned back as he opened the front door. ‘Listen to your fella, my lovely, and leave it alone whatever it is.’
***
Chelsea – June 1965
Marcus bought the dog a name tag with Fatima on one side and their address on the other, but he was soon calling her Fatty, which was ridiculous because she was so slender, but she seemed happy to answer to it.
Joycie had written to her aunt Susan shortly after the bundle of letters arrived, but now she wrote again saying she was sorry she couldn’t leave London for a while so wouldn’t be able to visit any time soon. They’d probably put her down as a stuck-up cow, but she didn’t dare go again until she was sure it was safe.
She also wrote to Mrs Shaw saying: I’ve spoken to Helen Banks and I’m afraid she really doesn’t know anything. She hasn’t seen Pauline since before she left Clacton. It was true as far as it went. And it certainly wouldn’t help Mrs Shaw to hear Helen’s suspicions. With the letter she included a note for Mrs Shaw to pass on to Dennis telling him she hoped her visit hadn’t upset him. She added: if it helps I’m pretty sure it was Sid, not Kay, who reported Dad to the police. I’d made myself forget a lot that happened around that time, but I remember now that they had a big row and Dad said he was going to leave the act. So Sid had every reason to be angry with him.
After that, and although she had said she couldn’t stop trying to get to the truth, she found she was able to do just that for the next couple of weeks. There were more and more times when she realized she had walked for several minutes without listening for the click of footsteps or glancing behind her. And although Fatty seemed to be frightened of cars, cats, bikes, children, and pretty much everything else that moved it was still comforting to know she was there.
