by Kitty Neale
Danny chuckled. ‘You daft bugger. Yeah, what I've got in mind takes two, but one of them is female.’
‘Oh … oh, right, I get it.’ But as Danny locked the gates, George added, ‘What about Yvonne?’
With a wink, Danny said, ‘What the eye doesn't see, as the saying goes.’
‘You jammy bastard,’ George grinned.
He watched as his brother walked away, struck by a thought. If Danny could have a bit on the side, then so could he. Yeah, why not? The next time Linda was too ill, or when her belly was too swollen for a bit of nooky, he'd go on the pull.
Chapter Six
Ivy Rawlings, formerly Draper, scowled as she looked around her living room. This was number six, the last house in the row, and she hated the interior. Money was tight and her battered furniture was second-hand, the surface of her sideboard badly scratched. Unlike her Uncle Dan and Aunt Joan, Ivy had few luxuries and resented it. She did have a bathroom, so felt superior to George and Linda, who lived next door in number five, but Ivy had waited over three years to get it. No doubt George, being a precious son who'd been married less than a year, would get preferential treatment, with an extension built soon.
Her lip curled and she took her anger out on Steve, her husband. ‘I hear they're having a meeting at the yard. Why aren't you there?’
‘I wasn't invited. Anyway, it's my day off.’
‘Day off! Leave it out. The yard closes at one o'clock so it's only half a day. You're a mug to put up with it,’ Ivy said, shaking her head at her husband's stupidity. ‘Do you know what the meeting's about?’
‘No.’
Ivy bristled. Getting anything out of Steve was like trying to get blood out of a stone, but she wasn't ready to give up yet. ‘Are they planning a job?’
‘Leave it out. Your uncle hasn't touched a safe in years.’
‘They're up to something. I can feel it in me water. Come on, you must know what's going on.’
‘I don't, and even if I did, I know when to keep my mouth shut.’
‘Don't give me that. You don't like my relatives, so why the loyalty?’
‘It ain't loyalty, you silly cow. It's more like self-preservation.’
‘Bloody hell, Steve, you can tell me. I ain't about to blab.’
‘Blab about what? For Gawd's sake, Ivy, I've been working for your uncle for less than a year so I'm as much in the dark as you are. I prefer it that way too. I'm happy just working in the yard and doing deliveries.’
‘Yeah, but compared to the boys you get paid peanuts. It ain't right, Steve. You do twice as many shifts as them. In fact, they hardly show their faces at the yard, so what do they get up to?’
‘I dunno, but I ain't complaining.’
Ivy saw the shifty look in her husband's eyes and wasn't fooled. He knew something, she was sure of it. He'd been a totter when she met him and it had taken her years to persuade Uncle Dan to give him a job in the family firm. Steve should thank her, but instead of telling her what they were up to he'd become as secretive as the rest of the male members of the family. She knew that at only five feet tall Steve was the butt of their jokes and, like her, he was no oil painting. He was thickset, and his lack of neck made his head appear to sit on his wide shoulders. On top of that, his legs were slightly bowed, due to malnutrition as a child. He had nice eyes, though, deep green and fringed by long, dark lashes.
The sound of a ball banging repeatedly against the wall made Ivy's chin jut. She rushed to the back door, throwing it open. The culprit was Ernie, her elder son, seven years old and football mad.
‘Pack it in!’ she yelled. ‘If you want to play with that ball, go to the park.’
‘Can I go too, Mummy?’ five-year-old Harry pleaded.
‘Yeah, bugger off, the pair of you. And you, Ernie, make sure you hold your brother's hand when you cross the road.’
They scuttled off and Ivy heaved a sigh of relief, glad of the peace. But no sooner had the boys disappeared than there was a knock on the door. ‘Christ, what now?’ she complained.
Steve opened it. ‘Watcha, Linda, come on in.’
‘Hello, love, you look a bit rough,’ Ivy observed.
‘I'm sorry to bother you, Ivy, but do you know of anything that can ease this morning sickness?’
Before Ivy could answer Steve said, ‘I'm just popping down to your Aunt Joan's.’
‘What for?’
‘Dan wants me to fix a catch on one of their windows.’
‘Oh, so now you're his handyman too. Huh, so much for your day off. I wanted you down at the allotment. You ain't touched it for ages and it's running wild with weeds.’
‘Don't start. Fixing the catch won't take a minute.’
‘Oh, just bugger off,’ Ivy said, glad to see the back of him. No sooner had the door closed than she turned to Linda, her bad mood lifting at the thought of a good old gossip with the only person who seemed to like her in the alley. ‘Sit down, love. I'll make us a nice cup of tea.’
‘Thanks, Ivy, but I doubt I'll be able to keep it down.’
‘You poor cow. I was the same with my first pregnancy. There ain't much you can do about it, but don't worry, it usually only lasts for the first three months. How about a couple of dry biscuits? That usually helps a bit.’
‘I'll try anything. I was hoping to pop round to my mum's, but if this sickness doesn't pass I won't get to the end of the alley before throwing up again.’
Ivy bustled into the kitchen and found a few cream crackers, which she put on a plate. With a pot of tea made she poured two cups, placing the lot on a plastic tray to carry back into the small living room.
‘Here, get that down you,’ she urged. ‘How is it going with George? Is he still unhappy about the baby?’
Linda sighed as she picked up a cracker, taking a tentative nibble before laying it down again. ‘Things are no better and this morning sickness doesn't help. I was so bad this morning that he had to leave without any breakfast.’
‘Oh dear, poor George,’ Ivy drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘He ain't a cripple and could have made himself a couple of bits of toast.’
‘George never does anything in the kitchen. He says cooking and cleaning are woman's work.’
‘Most men are the same, but if I'm feeling rough, Steve will muck in. He'll even have a go at cooking something simple. Anyway, changing the subject, do you know what this meeting at the yard's about?’
‘No, in fact I didn't know there was a meeting. George never discusses the business with me.’
‘If you ask me, there's something in the wind. I reckon they're planning a job. It's been ages since they've done one.’
Linda blanched. ‘A job! What do you mean?’
‘Surely you're not that naïve. You must know what sort of family you've married into.’
‘Well, I heard rumours, but George told me that nowadays they're just builders' merchants.’
‘Really? So you think the business makes enough to pay the wages for six households, do you?’
Linda's brow creased. ‘I … I hadn't given it a lot of thought, but it's a big yard, so yes.’
‘It might be big, but you can't tell me it takes seven men to run it. My Steve does most of the shifts and I'd give my right arm to know where the others disappear to every day. I've tried asking Steve, but he won't tell me anything. Why don't you see what you can get out of George?’
‘Oh, no, I couldn't do that! George would go mad if I start asking questions.’
Ivy didn't envy Linda her husband. She'd heard the rows next door, and suspected that George wasn't slow in giving Linda a slap or two. ‘Yeah, I've heard him doing his nut.’
‘George was lovely when we first got married, but lately, he … he's given me a few clouts. I'm scared for my baby, Ivy, and I don't know what to do.’
‘Sort him out. Nip it in the bud.’
‘I wish I could, but I don't know how.’
‘It's simple. If George tries to hit you again, pick up
the nearest heavy object, such as a frying pan, and bash him over the head with it.’
‘Oh, no, Ivy, I couldn't do that. I'm not strong like you.’
‘You don't need strength to bash him with a frying pan. Men who hit women are bullies. The only way to deal with George is to give him a dose of his own medicine. Once he knows you'll fight back, he'll soon back off.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Take my word for it, love. Now come on, cheer up. Things will look up once you've sorted George out, and you'll soon be over this morning sickness.’
For the first time Linda smiled. She picked up the cracker again, and finished it in no time, washing it down with a gulp of tea. ‘My goodness, I've managed to keep it down,’ she said.
‘That's the ticket. You should be able to pay your mum a visit now.’
With a little colour in her cheeks at last, Linda rose to her feet. ‘Thanks, Ivy. I think I'll go and tidy myself up and then I'll do just that. It feels like ages since I've seen my mum and I really miss her. My dad too.’
Linda wasn't the only one, Ivy thought, as she showed the girl out. She missed her parents too. Her father had been Uncle Dan's younger brother, but he'd been killed during the war. She and her mother had been grief-stricken, but Uncle Dan had taken them under his wing, continuing to support them until her mother died. Oh, yes, nice Uncle Dan, kind Uncle Dan – or so everyone thought. Ivy knew better.
At twenty-three years old she had married Steve, pretending to be grateful when Uncle Dan had secured them the tenancy of this house. Her eyes darkened with hate. She wasn't grateful, why should she be? Not when she suspected the truth. Of course she couldn't prove it, but her resentment had festered until it became an obsession. Oh, she'd make him pay – somehow – someday, she'd find a way. Until then she had to be content with stirring things up, causing mischief for the family at every opportunity.
With a thin smile Ivy consoled herself with the thought that she had a bit of information now. George had been hitting Linda, something that would upset her aunt and put the cat amongst the pigeons. She hated the way her aunt wanted for nothing – the way Uncle Dan called her ‘Queen’. Her own mother should have been equally well off, but instead had suffered the humiliation of Uncle Dan's so-called largesse.
Ivy made for number one, looking forward to wiping the smile off her aunt's face.
With a Woodbine between his lips, one eye shut as the smoke curled upwards, Steve Rawlings endeavoured to ease paint-encrusted screws out of the window frame. Joan was bustling about as usual – the woman never stood still. He could hear the thump, thump of Petula's record player, but at least the music was a bit muted since Joan had told the girl to close her bedroom door.
He'd been glad to get away from Ivy's questions, worried that one day she'd wear him down and he'd blurt out the truth. Like Ivy, he didn't have a lot of time for the Draper boys – well, except Chris, who was always friendly – and he was shit scared of Danny and George.
Ivy had talked him into joining the family business, wearing him down with her nagging. They might be better off, but in truth he hated working for Dan Draper. He'd started at the yard and it hadn't been a bad job, until after only a few months he'd been roped into the other stuff.
He'd been happier as a totter, his own man, riding the streets with his horse and cart, picking up scrap from households all over the borough. He may not have made a lot of money, but he'd never been frightened – not the gut-wrenching churning in his stomach he now felt every time he took out a delivery of the shit that the Drapers turned out. He dreaded getting stopped by the police, dreaded a vehicle search, knowing that if and when it happened, he'd have to take the fall. There was no way he'd dare implicate the Drapers – not if he wanted to stay alive.
His lips tightened. Of course, Ivy had no idea that the Drapers produced porn. The daft cow still thought they made their money from the yard, with a bit of thieving thrown in. Ivy still had her suspicions, of course, but there was no way he could tell her the truth, not when Dan had made it clear what would happen if he did. With a sigh he continued working on the catch, but then scowled when Ivy knocked on the door before sticking her head inside.
‘Hello, Auntie Joan. Can I come in?’ she called.
‘I suppose so, but I'm up to my eyes at the moment,’ Joan replied from the kitchen, her tone making it obvious she resented the interruption.
Ivy ignored the rebuff and Joan came fully into the room, wiping her hands on her apron as she said, ‘I'm cleaning out my cupboards. Everything's upside down.’
‘I won't stay long. I just popped down to see how Steve's getting on.’
‘I'm nearly finished,’ Steve said, annoyed to think that Ivy was checking on him, but when she spoke again he realised the truth of her visit.
‘I hear there's a meeting at the yard, Auntie Joan,’ Ivy said. ‘Do you know what it's about?’
‘No,’ Joan said shortly, adding as an afterthought, ‘why don't you ask your husband?’
‘He doesn't know either, do you, Steve?’
‘No, I don't,’ he said, wishing his wife would leave. His muscles tensed with nerves, hoping she wasn't up to mischief as usual. His hopes died when she spoke again.
‘I've just had Linda round to see me, Auntie Joan. The poor girl looks dreadful. She's got morning sickness, but worse, your George has taken to giving her a clout or two.’
Joan paled. ‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Yes. I think the girl needed someone to confide in, but even if she hadn't, I ain't deaf and can hear a lot through the walls.’
Steve twisted the last replacement screw into place, wanting only to be away from this conversation. Ivy was stirring again – something she took great pleasure in doing – yet he was at a loss to know why. Like him, she had no love for the Drapers, so why the bloody hell had she accepted a house in the alley?
‘Right, the job's done and I'm off,’ he said loudly.
Neither woman acknowledged him as he scurried out. One of these days Ivy would go too far and he dreaded the consequences. Dan Draper would never take it out on his niece and instead would get Danny or George to take it out on him. He had seen some of their handiwork and the thought made his guts churn.
Joan hardly heard the door as it closed behind Steve. She kept her gaze fixed on Ivy and fought to hide her dislike of Dan's niece, but knew she was failing as usual. There was no family resemblance, and Joan wondered how Dan's brother had produced such an ugly offspring – one with an ugly personality to match. The young woman seemed to enjoy causing her discomfort, taking every opportunity to make trouble.
Even as a child, Ivy had been sly. She could understand Dan helping both mother and child out when his brother had been killed during the war, but was at a loss to understand why he continued to help Ivy when she became an adult. The last house in the row should have been earmarked for Chris, a home for him when he decided to marry, but instead Dan had tipped up money to someone at the council for Ivy to move in with her husband. Not only that, he had gone on to give Ivy's husband a job in the firm.
‘I reckon you should give George a talking-to, Auntie Joan. It ain't right that he's hitting that poor girl.’
Joan, doubting the truth of Ivy's story, ground her teeth together. ‘I think you must have got the wrong end of the stick. George wouldn't hit his wife.’
‘Ask Linda herself if you don't believe me.’
‘Oh, I will, you can be sure of that,’ Joan snapped. ‘Now if you don't mind, I've got work to do.’
‘All right, I'm off,’ Ivy said, a false look of concern on her face before she turned to leave. ‘I hope I haven't upset you, Auntie Joan, but I thought you should know what George has been up to.’
Joan made no comment, but as the door closed behind Ivy, she raised a shaky hand to rub it across her forehead, still unable to believe that George was hitting his wife. She knew that Dan had once been a criminal, and that as they grew up he had roped the boys in, y
et he was also a gentleman, bringing the boys up to respect women. Dan might rule her, but he had never laid a finger on her and certainly wouldn't stand for the lads laying into their wives.
Dan had protected them all, yet in the past her nerves had been shattered by the police raids. Dan had laughed at her worrying, telling her they were too clever to get caught, but the only way she had been able to cope was to bury her fears behind a barrier of indifference, all her energies focused on her home. Of course, nowadays they were respectable, running a family business, and thank goodness she no longer had anything to worry about. At least she hoped so, but still she sensed that something was going on, and fear fluttered like a tiny bird against her ribcage.
Joan scuttled to the kitchen. Was Ivy telling the truth? Was George really hitting his wife? With gritted teeth she tackled the cupboards again, trying to force her worries to one side as she vigorously attacked a stain that had dared to appear on one of the doors.
At last, with her emotional barriers in place again, Joan calmed down. She would do what she always did when there were signs of trouble within the family. She'd leave it for Dan to sort out.
* * *
Petula switched off her gramophone, returning the record to its sleeve. She moved to the mirror, gazing with displeasure at her reflection. Unlike lots of girls in her class at school, she had hardly any bust, her figure still gangly and boyish. She had hoped that when her periods started a figure would follow, but no such luck.
With a swift look over her shoulder, Petula picked up her satchel, groping under her school books until she found the hidden tube of lipstick. If her dad knew she had it, he'd go mad, but with him out, and Mum busy as usual, she risked smearing some on her lips.
Petula's head cocked to one side. Yes, she looked marginally better, but longed to be glamorous, with a bust like Bob's wife, Sue. Her expression saddened. In truth, her figure and build was more like Yvonne's, a woman that she didn't want to emulate. Yvonne was too skinny, and though she dressed well, her clothes were plain. Sue, on the other hand, wore full skirts and close-fitting jumpers, or tight dresses that clung to her waist and ended just below her knees. Her make-up was bold, skilfully applied, and with this thought Petula wiped off the lipstick before lightly running downstairs.
