by Jessie Keane
Betsy loved Charlie. Every time she saw him her heart nearly stopped in her chest, she was so stricken with love for him. And she knew he felt the same about her. She was the luckiest girl in the world. Soon they would get engaged, then married; Charlie would look after her and there would be babies, loads of them, dark-haired little boys like Charlie and pretty little blonde girls like her. She was so happy she could burst.
Charlie had acquired a flashy motor, something a bit similar to the one Tranter used to roar around the bomb-battered streets in. Betsy wondered if it actually was Tranter’s old motor; Charlie seemed to have taken over everything else that had belonged to him.
One night he drove them down to the Mildmay Tavern in the Balls Pond Road at Dalston. Charlie said he had a bit of business to do there, which was fine with her. She liked to see him doing well, being the big man; he was soon to be her fiancé. She was proud of him.
When Joe and one of the other toughs who always seemed to be hanging around the Darke boys got in the back though, she pouted a bit.
‘But, Charlie, I thought it was just going to be you and me . . .’ She hadn’t expected a mob-handed outing.
‘Shut up, darlin’,’ said Charlie, and it was said fondly – but in such a way that she thought she better had.
The pub was busy, people out trying their best to enjoy themselves even though Hitler was giving them all a bit of a bashing one way or another. They all lived in fear these days: of being bombed to death in their beds, or of getting one of those much-dreaded telegrams telling them a loved one had been killed in action.
‘Mr Darke,’ said the landlord, then he lowered his voice and tipped his head towards the half-open door of the snug: ‘He’s in.’
‘Is he, by God?’ Charlie’s eyes followed the landlord’s.
So did Betsy’s. She could see a thin, semi-bald bloke in there, laughing uproariously with a gang of his mates.
‘How’s Carol?’
‘Shattered, poor bint. Shook her up something rotten. Since Mr Tranter stopped drinking in here, it’s been bloody bedlam.’
‘Well, we can’t have that,’ said Charlie with a smile. ‘Can we?’ He looked at Betsy. ‘You stay here, darlin’, OK?’
And what if it ain’t? wondered Betsy. But she nodded. When they were actually engaged to be married, she’d start to stamp her authority on the situation a bit more firmly; but for now, she wanted to be seen as the sweet little girlfriend, eager to please. Even if she wasn’t.
‘Come on,’ said Charlie, and together with Joe and the other man he pushed into the snug. Betsy stood at the bar, and the landlord put a sweet sherry down in front of her. She watched Charlie, his broad back, his casual elegance, through the open door of the snug. He was much more attractive than Joe, who was so bulky, so slow. And Charlie was the boss. She liked that.
‘You Bill Read?’ asked Charlie of a skinny balding man in there.
‘Who wants to know?’
And then she saw it. A switchblade razor seemed to jump into Charlie’s hand and he lunged forward. Yelling and screaming and cursing started up in the snug and in horror she saw the dark spurt of blood just as Joe put his back to the door from the other side, cutting off the smaller room from view.
People out in the main bar exchanged looks as the shouts and screams went on. The landlord continued pulling pints like nothing was happening.
Suddenly, everything went quiet.
Joe came out, closing the door swiftly behind him. There wasn’t a spot on him, not a mark. ‘You got the key to that other door in the snug?’ he asked the landlord.
The man nodded and quickly fetched the key from a hook behind the bar. He came round the counter and went into the snug with Joe.
Betsy thought she heard groaning when the door opened briefly. But then Joe closed it again, put his back against it. She could hear her own heart beating hard, and the sip of sherry she’d taken was starting to come back up in a sticky-sweet surge of vomit.
Everyone was chatting and laughing now in the bar, as if nothing had happened.
But something had.
Charlie and Joe were gone for over an hour while the landlord kept supplying her with glass after glass of sherry. She drank a bit, forced the sickly stuff down, and noticed that no one came near her, not a soul. She was a pretty girl, surely some bloke would sidle up and chance his arm? They always had before. Betsy with her flirty eyes and her pert little figure always drew the men in.
But no. She was stepped around like she was an invisible obstruction, like people would instinctively avoid a cold spot where a ghost hovered.
She was a ghost.
She was Charlie Darke’s girl.
She was, quite suddenly, afraid.
13
The legend of the Darke boys grew fast and furious after they did Bill Read over the Blind Carol incident. Where once Tranter had ruled the streets, now that task fell to the Darkes, and they relished it.
‘What was it about?’ Betsy asked Charlie one day.
‘What?’ He looked absent, as if his mind was elsewhere.
That annoyed her. He rarely paid her proper attention, unless he was trying to get her legs open. And she’d said no more of that, after that first time. He’d taken her unawares, surprised her. That wasn’t going to happen again. Fortunately there hadn’t been any repercussions, she wasn’t up the duff. If she was going to get him up the aisle, she knew she was going to have to call a halt to the sex stuff. He was moody over it, of course; all men were like that. Take their toys away and they turned from charming to nasty in an instant.
‘This “Blind Carol” business,’ said Betsy.
Charlie shrugged, looking unconcerned. ‘Well, she ain’t exactly blind, but she’s so short-sighted she might as well be. She worked in one of the Dean Street clip joints Tranter used to police with his boys, as a hostess, stinging the customers for cash – you know what, the silly sods could pay up to five hundred quid for a bottle of watered-down Scotch!’
Charlie sneered at the thought of such foolishness. With Charlie, everything was about what a thing cost. What was that old saying? He knows the cost of everything, and the value of nothing.
‘All on the promise of a quick bunk-up with a tart like that. Anyway, Bill Read went in there one night and, when he realized the Scotch was diluted, he worked her over. Right there in the club. The cheeky little fucker wouldn’t have had the nerve to do it if he hadn’t known Tranter was off the scene. He must have heard we were taking over the area, but he thought he’d chance his arm, see? He’s pushed us once or twice before, but this time he was throwing down the gauntlet good and proper, really taking the piss. He scared her witless, ruined her looks. We couldn’t have that.’
Betsy nodded. It had been less about the damage to this poor Carol and more about Charlie’s offended pride. But she supposed it was nice, the way he stepped in to protect the girl, whatever his motives. Betsy felt a fuzzy feeling of warmth at his valour. She hugged his arm against the side of her body as they crossed the street. She’d felt put out lately, what with Ruby being so often in a huddle with Vi; she felt hurt and rejected, and in need of company. But at least she had Charlie.
‘We ought to be looking at rings, soon,’ she said shyly, smiling hopefully up at his face. ‘D’you think it’s time you talked to Dad?’
Charlie nodded. Yeah, he’d get her an engagement ring, but after that she’d better start putting out again. And he’d talk to her father if it meant keeping her sweet – not that he needed to. Charlie Darke didn’t need anyone’s permission to do anything. He could do whatever he fucking well liked.
He called on the widow Tranter that afternoon – he dropped in most weeks, gave her a wedge, had a cup of tea. It was nice, sitting at the table with her, eating scones she’d baked because she didn’t have to worry about rationing, everything was available on the black market to those in the know, and Charlie Darke was in the know all right.
Charlie Darke was a big man now and he
felt that respect was due to him. So it irked him that Mrs Tranter accepted his dosh, entertained him politely, but seemed in no way impressed by him.
‘You miss him?’ he asked her, as they sat at the table.
‘What? Micky?’ Her mouth tilted up in a sour smile. ‘Why would I?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘He put bread on the table.’
‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘He did.’
‘You don’t seem heartbroken he’s gone.’
She shrugged. There was something so casual, so accepting and yet so closed off about her that it was really starting to annoy him.
‘People lose loved ones all the time in a war. That’s what happened to me. The fool was out and about doing deals and a bomb fell on his head. So what?’
With that she took the teapot out to the scullery for a refill. He watched her go. She was stocky, robust; no hot little sylph like Betsy. Her hair was mousy brown and pulled back into a bun like someone’s granny would wear it. Why didn’t she take more care of her appearance, for the love of God?
After a while she came back with the refill, placed the pot on the table, pulled the little hand-knitted cosy over it. Her steady ginger-toned eyes met his.
‘At least,’ she said, ‘that’s the tale. Ain’t it?’
‘Hm?’
‘That the Luftwaffe got him. Bomb blast took his head clean off his shoulders. Of course, there are other tales . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you wanted to take over his pitch and you did it and made it look like just another wartime casualty.’
Their eyes locked. Hers were steady and questioning. Charlie’s were blank, devoid of guilt.
‘And if it was . . . ?’ he asked.
‘Then I’d have to say . . .’ she started to smile ‘. . . what do I care? He’s dead. But don’t think I can’t read between the lines, Mr Darke, because, as I’ve told you before, I can. More tea?’
Charlie smiled and nodded.
She might be a bit of a dog, but he liked Mrs Tranter.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, as she poured.
‘What?’
‘Your name. You know. Mine’s Charlie.’
She sat down and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I know that. And Mrs Tranter will do for now,’ she said.
He looked at her. The cheeky mare had some front, talking to him, Charlie Darke, like that.
He stood up. ‘You know, I don’t have to act the gent with you. I could do anything I damned well like here. You do know that, don’t you?’
Her eyes held his. She didn’t flinch and she didn’t look afraid. She had balls, this one.
‘I know,’ she said. Not a tremor in her voice.
Balls and class. Shame she was such a plain Jane.
‘Only you act like you don’t.’
A thin smile twisted her lips. ‘Mr Darke, I’ve had everything done to me already. You want to try and shock me? Go ahead. Be my guest.’
Charlie shook his head, smiling, amazed at her audacity. He picked up his hat and went to the door. Paused there. ‘This ain’t over,’ he said, looking back at her.
She shrugged, and turned away.
14
‘Seashells,’ said Mr Van Damm. ‘Conch, starfish, coral, fish, eels, the lot. And you girls as mermaids. I can picture it now. We’ll get new costumes made. It’s going to be wonderful.’
Ruby exchanged a look with Vi, who raised a wry eyebrow in return. They were backstage in the big communal dressing room all the girls used between performances to rest, dress, relax, gossip, and knit mufflers for the troops.
Ruby had been in the employ of the Windmill Theatre for three months and already she had portrayed in tableaux an Egyptian queen, a cowgirl and a pirate. It was like dressing-up for adults, all powered along by Vivian Van Damm’s manic enthusiasm. He was a funny little man, quick-moving and with beady eyes under huge dense eyebrows. You could hear him coming a mile off; he jingled the change in his pockets all the time – he was full of restless energy.
Ruby was actually beginning to enjoy herself. Of course, the first time had been awful. Vi had told her it would be; it always was.
‘But it’s like swimming or riding a bike. Once you get the knack, you’re off.’
And she was right. That first night, Ruby had stood there in the darkness, frozen in fear, and then the lights had flashed on and the crowd had roared. So many people, all staring at her standing there dressed like Cleopatra in black wig, filmy long harem pants and a heavy gold necklace – nothing else. Then the other tableaux had one by one been revealed, and the crowd cheered and clapped and stamped and the attention was now focused on the other girls too, which made her feel a little less . . . conspicuous.
‘All right there, sweetheart?’ Mr Van Damm asked her as he went to leave the room. ‘Settling in?’
‘Yes. Thanks,’ she said.
‘She’s a real trooper,’ said Deena, a stunning blonde, putting an arm round Ruby’s shoulders in happy camaraderie.
They were on in ten minutes, her and Vi, Deena and Joan, and now they were all scrabbling to put the finishing touches to their Red Indian squaw outfits, checking their headbands and feathers were straight, their tiny tasselled waistcoats (very tiny) were pushed well back from their breasts, their long fringed fake buckskin skirts were decently buttoned.
They went out onto the stage – the curtains were still closed – and positioned themselves behind the big frames, ready to hold their poses, ready to be lit, to be admired. As Vi scampered by wearing a long blonde wig she hissed to Ruby: ‘Got to talk to you after.’
Ruby shot her a questioning look. ‘What . . . ?’
‘After,’ said Vi firmly, and dropped her peignoir and took up her pose: an alabaster-skinned Apache maid posing on a rocky desert outcrop to lure Red Indian warriors.
‘Go on then, tell me,’ said Ruby.
Vi took a long pull on her cigarette and said, ‘How do you feel about a private party?’
‘A what?’
‘Private party. I’ve been approached by a gentleman – very respectable – with a request that two of us should perform privately, for a select group. What do you think?’
Ruby thought she wasn’t very keen on the idea. There were always crowds of men, soldiers on leave, civilians, outside the stage door, waiting to see this or that girl, to get their programme signed by these mortal goddesses they saw in the glittering, unreal setting of the vividly lit stage. Usually Ruby hustled past them, ignoring the outstretched hands, the pleading eyes. They made her feel uncomfortable. But Vi always accepted their worship as if it was her due.
‘What, one of the stage-door johnnies?’ she asked.
Vi was watching her assessingly. She shook her head and blew out a plume of smoke.
‘Nah. Not one of them. This one’s a gent. A real toff.’
‘Where then? Here? In the Windy?’ There was a small room they used for staff parties.
‘Not here, dopey. At a proper gentlemen’s club in the City. All fares paid, all expenses covered.’
‘I don’t know.’
A quick look of irritation crossed Vi’s face. ‘Cash in hand,’ she added with a sigh.
That was the thing Ruby would remember later, that moment when Vi looked annoyed with her and said cash in hand. She knew Vi thought she was limp. That she had no spirit.
But hadn’t she already proved her wrong? She’d lied to get here. God hadn’t yet struck her dead for her audacity. Dad hadn’t raised so much as a murmur. He really believed she was working day in, day out at the salvage depot. And Betsy was covering the lie, standing in sometimes at the shop. Everything – to Ruby’s amazement – seemed to be working out. She was gaining in confidence, pushing the boundaries.
‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Good girl!’ said Vi with a smile.
Ruby felt sure her mum would have been proud of her.
Wouldn’t she?
15
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1922
Leroy was outside the shop again when Alicia opened up the following morning, leaning against the doorway.
‘Was that you?’ asked Alicia.
‘Huh?’ He was smiling at her, thinking that she was beautiful.
‘Last night. We heard someone playing the trumpet.’
‘Yeah. That was me.’
‘You play so well.’Alicia paused. ‘I’m sorry about Ted shouting like that,’ she said, getting the key out and flushing with embarrassment at the memory of Ted’s crassness.
She was sure that Ted would be over there, complaining to Leroy’s landlord today. And then probably Leroy and his friends would be thrown out, and she would never hear that bewitching, sultry sound again.
‘He the man? The one that shouted? That your husband?’
‘You heard him?’ Alicia felt hot with shame.
‘He don’t like music?’
Alicia opened the door and paused to remove the key. She didn’t know what to say. Ted would tolerate Ivor Novello or Caruso. But what he called nigger music, he hated. And she couldn’t tell Leroy that.
‘He don’t like it very much,’ she said.
‘You do, though?’ Leroy was staring into her eyes.
‘Yes, I like it,’ she said, flustered by the intensity of his gaze.
‘You want to come to my room sometime?’ he asked softly. ‘Hear me play?’
‘No,’ she said, feeling a distant, warm clenching of excitement in the pit of her stomach. ‘No, I don’t.’
With that, she walked on into the shop.
16
The Darke firm was branching out, spreading its tentacles throughout London. Charlie had some of his boys get taken on as porters at a new frozen-food depot. They turned up for the job in hats, gloves, donkey jackets, thick trousers and steel-capped boots and proceeded to rob half the stock.
