by Mia Dolan
‘It’s a wonder Gran and Great-gran didn’t get burnt as witches, what with the Catholic Church and all that.’
Her father laughed. ‘Too bloody true! I can just imagine my old mother flying through the air on a bleedin’ broomstick!’
The city lights flashed past on both sides of them. Every so often Marcie felt little glances of pride come her way as though he couldn’t quite believe that this beauty sitting by his side was really his daughter.
She caught him looking. ‘Keep your eyes on the road.’
‘I’m a good driver!’ he exclaimed. ‘So how do you like Victor and his family?’
It was just like him to change the subject. Marcie remembered having a headache and what Victor had said to her. ‘He’s different.’
Her father laughed. ‘He’s bloody mental! That’s what he is.’
She didn’t know what he meant. ‘He’s Sicilian,’ she countered.
Her father laughed even harder, throwing his head back so the veins stood out like twigs in his neck. ‘That too! Too right he’s bloody that!’
Her comments seemed to amuse him a lot, though she couldn’t fathom why. Obviously something about them had tickled his funny bone. Done with talking of the past, she changed the subject.
‘Where is this place we’re going?’
‘Cleopatra’s Bath Tub.’
‘What?’ Marcie giggled at the name. ‘Why is it called that?’
Her father shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think the boss just liked the name.’
‘The boss?’
‘Victor Camilleri. He owns it. He owns a few others as well, though some of them are not quite so upmarket as this little lot. This is where the real glitz and glamour is, Marcie. You just wait till you see it in here.’
The building housing Cleopatra’s Bath Tub turned out to be something of a disappointment. Books not being judged by their covers came to Marcie’s mind as she looked up at the plain brick façade. There was a sign saying Cleopatra’s Bath Tub Club above a plain green door. The door was narrow and had a small aperture at head height. When her father knocked, the aperture opened. Whoever was behind the door took one look, saw who it was and opened the door for them.
‘Good evening, Mr Brooks.’
The man behind the door had the chubby face of a child and the body of an all-in wrestler.
‘Arthur! How the devil are you, my man?’ The two men shook hands.
‘Fine and dandy, Mr Brooks. Fine and dandy.’
A ten shilling note passed from her father’s big hand into the meatier shovel of the doorman.
‘You’re a gentleman, Mr Brooks.’
‘Call me Tony,’ said her father, squeezing the doorman’s elbow in a friendly manner. ‘All my mates call me Tony.’
Cleopatra’s Bath Tub Club was dark and smoky. Egyptian-style tomb tableaux decorated most of the walls and the waitresses were dressed in white tunics with gold belts, fake gold necklaces and Egyptian-style multicoloured headbands. Some of the girls smiled sweetly at her father, reserving less welcoming looks for the statuesque blonde who had come in with him.
‘My daughter,’ he said to one of them.
‘Yeah,’ said the gum-chewing waitress. ‘They all say that.’
Something in Marcie Brooks snapped. She’d had enough of being labelled a tart because she had a kid, so she wasn’t taking this. The girl flinched when she grabbed her wrist.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she whined.
‘Yes, and I’ll hurt you some more,’ said Marcie squeezing the girl’s wrist a little more tightly. ‘He’s telling the truth. He is my dad,’ said Marcie. ‘I’m unique in that I know who my dad is but not my mother.’
The words were out before she could stop them.
‘Leave it out, Marcie.’ Tony seemed embarrassed.
Alarm flashed in her father’s eyes – or was it anger? Sod it! She didn’t care.
‘Because I mentioned my mother?’
She’d hit on the truth. She could see it in his eyes.
‘Nah! Because you’re cutting off the waitress’s blood supply.’
It was a lie. She knew it was a lie, but she let go of the girl anyway.
She found that she didn’t regret saying what she’d said even though her dad got dead shirty when her mother was mentioned. Well, she was growing up, so he was going to have to get used to it.
The waitress knew when to eat humble pie. She gave a curt nod and managed a weak smile. ‘Oh yeah. There is a likeness. I can see it now. Do you have a table booked?’
‘Are you new, girl?’ her father said, his expression and mood soured.
The girl nodded. ‘Yeah. Four days, three hours …’
‘You won’t make another hour if you don’t sort yourself out and get to know who’s who around here. I’m Tony Brooks. I’m with Mr Camilleri.’
‘Oh!’
The cocky manner had died a death and was swiftly replaced with courtesy. ‘This way, sir.’
By this time they had reached the table where Victor Camilleri was sitting with his sons.
Victor shook Tony Brooks’ hand. ‘Tony. Good to see you, my old friend.’
He beamed at Marcie. ‘And you’re showing London at night to your beautiful daughter. And so you should, Tony. She has hardly left her room since coming to London. I think it is time she went out and enjoyed herself more.’
Victor Camilleri had dextrous eyes. They saw her but they saw everyone and everything else as well. He was a man who observed and took note of what was going on around him. He owned this club. He owned these people who worked for him.
He ordered champagne. It wasn’t long coming.
‘I believe you have already met my sons.’
She said that she had.
Michael, the illegitimate one, smiled tightly as though to smile any wider would crack his face. She read hostility in the grey-green eyes. It felt as though this hostility was directed at her though she could not comprehend any reason for it. Perhaps he always looks like that, she decided.
Roberto was his opposite; he greeted her as though they hadn’t seen each other for years. His appearance was not quite so outrageous as earlier in the day. She surmised that he was less so when in his father’s company. All the same, he wore a yellow evening shirt with frills down the front and on the cuffs. His suit was of indigo velvet and matched his bow tie. His hair was brushed forwards to hide the earring.
‘The outfit!’ he exclaimed, indicating the black dress and feather boa with extravagant gestures of his hands. ‘Was my mother right or was she right? I have good taste, yes?’
She wanted to giggle because he sounded so much like his father, making statements as though they were questions. But she didn’t giggle. She merely agreed that yes, his mother was right and he was right. She also saw what her mother saw in him. He was a prince among men, confident and full of himself. He couldn’t fail in whatever he chose to do in life.
‘All I need are enough nights out to justify the price,’ she said laughingly.
‘You didn’t pay for it,’ Michael interjected. ‘You couldn’t afford to pay for it on your wages.’
She stared at the morose expression. It was hard to believe that Michael was Roberto’s brother. If his comment was designed to make her feel like a pauper, he’d certainly hit the target.
She felt her face colouring up. ‘I didn’t ask for charity,’ she hotly declared.
Roberto’s square jaw stiffened as he glared at his half-brother. ‘Michael, your comment was uncalled for. My mother ordered and I obeyed.’
‘As we all must,’ Victor added. ‘I know nothing about fashion myself, but I know my wife. What she does not know about fashion is not worth knowing.’
Victor’s comment was measured and well timed. His busy eyes flashed onto Michael’s face before moving onto Marcie. ‘You are a credit to your father, Marcie Brooks. The dress is lovely and you are lovely. Why, if I was twenty years younger – and single of course … I would take you ou
t myself.’
Marcie flashed Roberto a grateful smile.
‘That honour falls to me I think, my father. I will take Marcie out, though I would point out that it’s going to take more than one night before that dress is worn out. And then you might have to buy a new one and start all over again.’
The offer was obvious. Marcie felt herself blushing down to her roots. Would she ignore the warnings and go out with Roberto anyway? You bet she would!
Victor ordered more champagne. ‘The good stuff.’
The men asked Marcie if she minded them smoking. Being asked made her feel important. She said she did not mind so they went ahead and lit their cigars.
‘This is something of a celebration,’ said Victor. ‘It is not often that I employ a man who carries out my orders to the letter and with such astonishing efficiency. If I didn’t know better, I would think that Tony here is paying my tenants’ rent for them.’
There was more laughter. Marcie wasn’t sure about the joke. She’d presumed that Victor’s business centred on nightclubs. Now he was speaking of tenants and rents.
‘You own property?’ She directed her question directly at Victor.
‘Ye…sss,’ Victor said slowly. The way he looked at her was difficult to interpret; there was appraisal, but there was also a feline wariness as though he would leap at her throat if he had to.
‘I didn’t know that.’ She smiled benignly, feeling she owed him a great deal.
Michael chipped in, ‘Mr Camilleri owns a lot of property. He has a lot of tenants,’ he said bitterly.
There was accusation in Michael’s tone.
Victor perceived it just as Marcie had. He turned threatening eyes on his son.
‘I’m warning you, Michael. You are testing my tolerance. My breaking point is getting ever nearer. Beware, Michael. And bear in mind that I take in the people other landlords refuse to take. Blacks, coloureds, Irish even …’
She could tell by Victor’s blazing eyes that Michael was supposed to back down. He didn’t.
‘They’re strangers here in a strange land. And they’re still human. They deserve a decent place to live, not –’ His tone was bitter as he met his father’s angry glare.
‘Michael!’ Victor’s dark brows furrowed in warning. ‘That is a matter of opinion.’
Marcie felt herself turning cold. The tension between Victor and his bastard son was palpable. The subject matter was disturbing and Victor’s response most disturbing of all. Was that really his attitude towards foreigners or just towards black people? On Sheppey it was still rare to see people of colour but since being in London, Marcie had become aware that the city was full of different nationalities and races. It was part of what she loved about being in London – it was so lively, cosmopolitan and different, and there was room for people from all over the world.
She wanted to point out to Mr Camilleri that he too had been an immigrant once. He was not British by birth and yet he had found a home here, just as her grandmother had done. But fear of this man stayed her tongue. Up until now she hadn’t much liked Michael. Now she found herself siding with his point of view. Not that she would come out with it. Not here, not with her father and Victor Camilleri sitting at the table.
Her father would probably be OK about her views, but she feared Victor Camilleri. Despite having witnessed his charming side, she knew he was clearly not a man to cross.
‘How about you, Marcie? Do you think black people are lesser creatures than white?’
It was Michael who asked. She started, blushing at the thought that he must have seen a sign of discomfort on her face.
‘That reminds me … I’m showing Marcie the sights tonight, so if you don’t mind me not being around for the rest of the evening …’
There was a jovial intensity in her father’s face and demeanour – almost as though he hadn’t caught the gist of the conversation at all. In fact he couldn’t possibly have missed it.
Victor patted him on the back. ‘Regretful as I am not to have your company for the rest of the evening, I bow to the needs of a beautiful young lady, Antonio. You must show London to Marcie. She is young and will enjoy it.’
There was no doubt in Marcie’s mind that her father’s intervention was perfectly timed and purposeful. The subject of race was dropped and everyone was suggesting where her father should take her first that evening.
‘First things first, we will eat,’ Victor said. In the blink of an eye, his expression and tone had switched from mean to magnanimous.
The food was glorious and the champagne flowed.
Victor’s views on race and foreigners were not exactly forgotten, only pushed to one side. Perhaps it was the champagne, but Marcie felt confident enough to joke and talk with these men as though she’d known them for ages.
Roberto smiled at her across the table. Michael threw her a look she could not quite interpret and stalked off to the bar where he leaned brooding, every so often throwing more looks in her direction.
She decided to ignore him. Roberto was paying her a great deal of attention and she was enjoying it.
Roberto had classic good looks, a wide mouth, one half of which seemed perpetually to be smiling. His clothes were a riot of modern fashion fads. He still reminded her of a disc jockey she’d heard of from Radio Caroline. He too wore purple velvet jackets and wide-brimmed hats. So different. So exciting.
His eyes continually met hers across the detritus of empty champagne bottles. In the past she would have blushed, but not tonight. Perhaps it was the champagne that made her bold. She held his gaze.
Her father leaned close. ‘This party’s for you, doll.’
Somehow his comment amused her. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re my daughter and you’re gorgeous!’
Studying her father’s face as she smiled at him, she read his expression. What she saw there convinced her that either he was lying or he didn’t have a clue. Yes, she’d been welcomed in the Camilleri household, though she couldn’t really understand why. It seemed as though Victor thought highly of her father and she knew that Mrs Camilleri thought highly of her dress designs. But there was something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A little push might help bring whatever it was into the light of day.
Making an instant decision, she got to her feet, champagne glass in hand.
‘Here’s to Mr and Mrs Camilleri. My grateful thanks for giving me a foothold on the ladder to fashion success. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do – design my own collection, and one day I might do just that. Cheers everyone.’
‘Fashion! Oh yeah,’ said Roberto laughingly raising his glass too. ‘You’re here to be a fashion queen.’
He kept on laughing.
‘Of course,’ said Victor Camilleri throwing his laughing son a look of disapproval. ‘You will be successful in whatever you decide to do, Marcie Brooks. I, Victor Camilleri, will make sure of that.’
Despite the champagne Marcie found it difficult to relax. She didn’t actually do so until they were sitting in the back of a taxi.
‘Dad, your timing was spot on. I didn’t know what to say when Michael asked me that question. Or rather I did but didn’t think Mr Camilleri would like it much.’
He patted her hand and sighed heavily. ‘You were right not to say anything. Old Victor’s a bit racist when it comes to black people. Did I ever tell you he used to be a count? That was back in Sicily of course. All behind him now.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘Thanks anyway, Dad. Now are you sure he’s OK about you taking me out and about?’
‘No problem at all, sweetheart. All they’re going to do tonight is visit a few pubs and clubs that they operate in and have a good time. They don’t need me tonight.’
Tony Brooks settled back against the black leather seat. Everything was well with the world as far as he was concerned. He’d heard Ella had fallen behind with the rent again. He was going to have to go round there and have a word. ‘I’ll do it tomor
row,’ he’d said to Victor. ‘That alright with you?’
Victor had snake eyes; they stared at you unblinking while he sorted out his thoughts. He also had a snake smile. ‘I don’t like my tenants taking the piss, Antonio. Know what I mean?’
Tony had taken that as meaning that everything would be OK. He’d go round Ella’s tomorrow and sort things out. Victor trusted him. He failed to ask the other question – whether he trusted Victor. And that was something he should have done.
Chapter Twenty-two
TWO A.M. THE cobbled street led to derelict buildings that had been bombed during the Blitz and were scheduled for redevelopment. There was only one street light remaining. The muted light from its ancient gas mantle flickered to reveal where corrugated iron replaced a gap in what remained of the old brick wall.
Before the bomb had dropped, the street had once been lined on each side with five-storey tenements. Only three remained standing, their end walls crumbling into the bombed-out shells at the end of the street. Moss covered areas of brickwork as a result of water spewing from broken guttering. Windows were ill fitting. The stone steps leading up to the front door were cracked and iron railings above basement entrances bent outwards threatening to skewer passers-by. Not that many people frequented the narrow pavements except for those who lived here. And those that lived here could not afford to live anywhere else.
Roberto was sitting beside his father in the rear seat of his handsome black Bentley. A piece of muscle called Bog was in the driving seat. They were parked behind another car, a dark-green Ford Zodiac driven by two more of their operatives: mean types, the shock troops of their letting operation.
At present the car in front of them was empty. Father and son’s eyes were turned towards the first of the towering houses that had once been home to merchants in the days when Great Britain was becoming an empire. After that they’d been boarding houses. Now they were crammed with immigrants seeking a new life in a country they were supposed to regard as ‘the Motherland’.
