Family Betrayal

by Kitty Neale

  ‘I haven't given Dad's will a thought,’ Maurice lied, ‘and anyway, until it's read, we won't know how we stand.’

  ‘Yeah, well, none of us have mentioned it to Mum yet. She's been in such a state that we decided to leave it until after the funeral.’

  ‘Look, forget about the will,’ Chris said impatiently. ‘You seem to have forgotten that we've got to find Pet.’

  Danny nodded. ‘Yes, Chris is right, and as I told Bob earlier, it wasn't Pet who grassed on us. I reckon it was Jack Garston, but now Pet thinks I'm after her and I feel like shit.’

  Maurice frowned. ‘I doubt it was Garston. If word got out that he's a grass, he'd be finished. Not only that, Garston had no reason to dob us in. We're out of the game now and he knows it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bob said, ‘Maurice is right.’

  ‘All right, so it wasn't Garston,’ said Danny. ‘We'll just have to find out who it was, and then sort him out, but for now we need to put our heads together to find Pet.’

  ‘What about her friends? She could be with one of them,’ Bob suggested.

  ‘I know where one lives, a girl called Jane, but that's all,’ Chris said.

  Danny rose to his feet. ‘Right, let's start there.’

  ‘Do you mind if I leave you to it?’ Maurice asked. ‘I'm still a bit rough and the cold weather really gets to my chest.’

  ‘Yeah, go on home. We can manage,’ Danny told him. ‘I'll just pop upstairs to tell Yvonne what we're up to, and then we can leave.’

  ‘I'll tell Sue,’ Bob said, saying goodbye to Maurice before he hurried out.

  Maurice turned to Chris. ‘If Mum doesn't change her mind, you could move into George's place.’

  ‘No, I don't fancy that. Too many memories,’ Chris said.

  Maurice frowned at his cryptic reply, but then Danny came downstairs, wrapped up against the cold in his camel coat and carrying brown leather gloves.

  ‘Right, let's go,’ he said.

  As they walked outside snow was falling and Maurice shivered. He said a hasty goodbye, calling to his brothers that he'd see them the next day before hurrying out of the alley to his car.

  Maurice drove off, his mood low. He'd told his brothers that he hadn't given his father's will a thought, but it wasn't true. In fact he was disappointed that they were waiting until after the funeral to read it.

  On Lavender Hill, the traffic lights turned to red. Maurice pulled up automatically, his mind hardly on the road. Since leaving the alley he'd been constantly worried about the future, but on hearing of his father's death the burden had lifted. He would receive an inheritance, and had mentally calculated the business assets. There was the yard and the small-holding in Wimbledon, both worth a lot of money. They could be sold, the money shared, and his worries would be over.

  Maurice gripped the steering wheel, fighting off feelings of guilt. Yes, he was sad when his father died, but since having two strokes and coming home from hospital, his mother had guarded him so well that Maurice had hardly seen him. It had saddened him that his father had been left helpless, half alive, a shadow of the man he used to be. When he had stopped holding the reins of the family business, it had gone to pieces, and most of that had been down to Danny. The distance from his family had given Maurice time to think, for his resentment to build. It had been Danny's ambitions, his obsession with making money that had put Oliver at risk, forcing Maurice to leave the alley. He had managed to hide his feelings this morning, but just looking at Danny sickened him.

  Once he had his inheritance, Maurice was determined to start a new life, somewhere where there was no chance of Norma ever finding out about his past. If it wasn't for his health, they could have emigrated, but they could still move to the other end of the country, maybe Devon or Cornwall, where they could buy some sort of small business, a tea shop or one selling souvenirs. They might never be rich, but he would be his own boss without the worry of finding employment. He wouldn't miss Danny, though he'd miss the rest of the family, but once away from London he would never have to worry about losing his wife and son again.

  Danny, Chris and Bob were propping up the bar in a local pub, all drinking shorts. They had been to see Jane, but the girl said she hadn't seen Pet and didn't know where she was. She had given them a couple of other addresses to try, but again they drew blanks.

  ‘That's it then,’ Bob said. ‘We've been everywhere, and put out the word, but nobody's seen her.’

  Danny downed his third whisky. ‘She can't be walking the streets in this weather. Somebody must have taken her in.’

  ‘I still can't get over the reception we got when we tried Linda's parents' place. I thought the old boy was going to have a fit when he saw us,’ said Chris.

  ‘Yeah, and I thought Linda was going to pass out,’ Bob said as he waved his glass at the barman to indicate another round.

  Danny shrugged. ‘It was worth a try, and once Linda knew that we weren't interested in her baby, she calmed down, especially when we told her that there's still no sign of George.’

  As another drink was put in front of Chris he threw it down his throat, then said, ‘Shit, I dread telling Mum that we ain't found Pet.’

  ‘You and me both,’ Danny said, waving his glass and adding, ‘but a few more of these might help.’

  By closing time, all three were drunk, none bothering that Danny was in no fit state to drive as they got into his car. After a few fumbled attempts Danny managed to find the ignition, and though mounting the pavement at every corner, he somehow managed to drive home.

  They staggered into the alley, propping each other up, and stopped outside their mother's door.

  Chris was swaying on his feet but managed to rattle the letter box. He shook his head, trying to focus, and when the door was flung open he slurred, ‘We've tried, Mum, but we couldn't find her. Can I come in now?’

  ‘No you bloody well can't. I've told you, find my daughter, and until you do, you can bugger off,’ she shouted, slamming the door shut.

  ‘Blimey, I never thought I'd see the day,’ Bob chuckled. ‘Mum's starting to swear like a trooper.’

  ‘Ish not funny,’ Chris slurred.

  ‘Sod you then, I'm going home,’ Bob said, taking his arm from around Danny to stumble to his own front door.

  Danny held Chris up as they went into his house, where he heaved his brother onto the sofa, almost falling as he sank down beside him. He was drunk, but seeing his mother had sobered him a little. Yvonne came into the room from the kitchen, her face anxious.

  ‘Did you find Pet?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, but we'll keep looking.’

  Her eyes flicked to Chris and he grinned inanely. ‘Watcha, Yvonne.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘We only had a few, love,’ Danny told her, his eyes drooping until, unable to keep them open any longer, he sank back and in moments was asleep.

  When Chris did the same, Yvonne shook her head before returning to the kitchen. They were supposed to be looking for Petula, but instead they had been in the pub, and judging by the look of them they'd been drinking since opening time. She wanted to talk to Danny about Christmas, but now it would have to wait until he sobered up.

  It was Christmas Eve tomorrow, her order waiting to be picked up, but how could she cook a Christmas dinner knowing that her mother-in-law was alone next door? Then there was the funeral to face. Two cars had been ordered, but with Joan feeling the way she did, would she refuse to travel to the cemetery with her sons? It was a mess, everything was a mess and the last thing she needed was her husband coming home drunk. Her head began to thump, and tiredly she rubbed her forehead. It was no good, she'd have to lie down. So, having poured a glass of water, Yvonne carried it upstairs. Drunk or sober, Danny would have to sort it out. She'd had enough.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Pet was dusting the living room, but paused to look out of the window. The landscape was white, a blanket of snow thick on the ground. It had been snowi
ng heavily since Christmas, and according to the weather forecast, there was no sign of a let-up.

  Today was her father's funeral, the thought of it almost more than she could bear. When the door opened, Pet spun round to see Ivy coming into the room, her cousin frowning when she looked at her.

  ‘Are you all right, Pet?’

  ‘It's today – my father's funeral.’

  ‘Blimey, no wonder you look upset. Come on, leave the housework and I'll make us both a nice cup of hot chocolate. Honestly, you're just like your mother, always on the go, but for once, give it a rest.’

  ‘I'd rather keep busy.’

  Ivy grimaced, her hands involuntarily rubbing her tummy. ‘Bloody ulcer,’ she complained, ‘and that jollop the doctor gave me is a waste of time.’

  Pet frowned as she looked at Ivy. ‘I think you've lost more weight.’

  ‘There isn't much I can eat that doesn't give me gyp so is it any wonder?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ said Pet, ‘but if the medicine isn't helping, maybe you should go back to see the doctor.’

  ‘It'd be a waste of time. The old quack is well past it, and if you ask me, he should retire. I reckon his eyesight is going and when I told him about the pains in my tummy he asked a few questions, but didn't examine me before saying it's an ulcer.’

  Pet hadn't been close to Ivy when they had lived in Drapers Alley, but living with her now had proved a revelation. Ivy was kind, a good mother, her marriage a happy one.

  When Pet had asked Steve about Ivy's constant pain he'd told her it was an ulcer, but Pet knew nothing about them, only seeing how debilitating the pain could be. She did all she could to help Ivy, taking on the housework and sometimes the cooking, pleased to be useful. It helped to keep busy, helped to keep thoughts of her family at bay, but at night, alone in her room, it was impossible.

  Ivy's clock struck the hour, and seeing the time, Pet's eyes filled with tears. It was happening now, her father was being buried. She felt a touch on her arm, the duster pulled from her hand.

  ‘Come on, Pet,’ Ivy said, her voice unusually gentle. ‘I said leave the housework.’

  ‘Oh, Ivy, I should be there. I should be at his funeral.’

  ‘I know, love, I know,’ Ivy murmured, pulling Pet into her arms and holding her whilst she cried.

  Danny's face was grim as he listened to Yvonne. It had been a lousy Christmas and New Year, culminating in this, his father's funeral. His mother still wouldn't have anything to do with them, stubbornly spending Christmas Day alone, and only that morning had she conceded to let Yvonne in the door.

  ‘She doesn't want you or anyone else in the car with her,’ Yvonne said when she returned, ‘but she finally agreed that we can follow.’

  ‘What about the service?’

  ‘She wants to sit alone in the chapel.’

  ‘This is bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘I know, and I did the best I could, but it's like talking to a brick wall.’ Tears suddenly filled Yvonne's eyes. ‘We used to be so close, Danny, but now your mum hates me.’

  ‘She'll come round, love, you'll see.’

  ‘No, Danny, I don't think so. She's so bitter and I don't know what she meant, but she said something about the lot of us having a shock coming. Oh, look at the time. The cars will be here soon so I'd better get changed.’

  Danny was already in his suit, with white shirt and black tie. Chris was upstairs putting his on, but he'd have to warn Bob that they would have to use the second car, one that had been booked to take the wives and children to the service. ‘All right, and while you're getting ready, I'll pop round to tell Bob about the arrangements.’

  When Danny went into his brother's, his overcoat flung around his shoulders, he saw that the kids were ready, both Robby and Paul dressed smartly and, like him, wearing black ties. Sue was wearing a black coat, but to him her hat looked frivolous, perched on the side of her head with a small veil covering her eyes.

  ‘Any sign of Maurice?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Danny told her as Bob came downstairs. ‘Mum doesn't want any of us in the car with her so we've got to follow. Seven of us won't fit in the second car, so you go in that with Maurice, Sue and the boys. I'll take Yvonne in my car.’

  ‘So, Mum finally let you in,’ Bob said.

  ‘No, not me, it was Yvonne.’

  Sue's lips curled in derision. ‘Huh, I might have guessed.’

  The door opened, Maurice saying as he walked in, ‘I saw the cars outside the alley and there's a bloke in a top hat knocking on Mum's door.’

  ‘Right, I'll get Yvonne and Chris,’ Danny said, hurrying next door.

  Soon everyone was on the pavement, all eyes gaping as their mother walked outside. Instead of black, she was wearing a fawn-coloured coat with a wide-brimmed hat in the same shade, the outfit more suited to a wedding than a funeral.

  ‘She said we had a shock coming and this must be it,’ Yvonne whispered.

  ‘What's her game? Look at her – it's bloody disgusting,’ Sue snapped.

  Without a backward glance Joan walked out of the alley, the rest of them following. Danny glanced at the hearse; saw the flowers surrounding his father's coffin before quickly looking away. He fought to pull himself together and, telling the others to get into the second car, he hustled Yvonne to the lockup to get his.

  Danny needn't have hurried. With his top hat under his arm, and umbrella held out in front of him, the funeral director stepped in front of the hearse, slowly walking in front of it, the cars moving behind at a snail's pace. Danny waited until he could slot in behind the second car, and as he drove slowly along he saw that the pavement was lined with locals solemnly watching the small procession pass. He was pleased to see that they were showing their respects, and though they had held his father in fear, many had turned to him when they had a problem.

  When the hearse turned onto Lavender Hill the funeral director hopped into the front, the car picking up pace. At last they reached the chapel where they all stood silently as the coffin was carried in. Then their mother was beckoned forward, dry-eyed as she walked straight to the first pew. The others then followed, all shuffling into the row behind her, but before the service could start, Robby's voice echoed as he piped, ‘Nanny, is Granddad in that box?’

  His mother didn't turn, but Danny saw that her shoulders had begun to shake. He wanted to run to her, to offer comfort, but then to his horror he heard a titter of laughter. His mother wasn't crying, she was laughing. My God, she was actually laughing!

  When the chapel service was over Joan walked to the cemetery, aware that the rest of them were close behind, but ignoring them. It was freezing, snow laying on the ground, the path slippery underfoot. When they reached the graveside, Joan saw the way the vicar looked at her, his disapproval plain, his expression pompous. Who was he to judge her? What did he know of her life, her disillusion? All right, she wasn't wearing black, the mark of respect, but Dan didn't deserve respect, only contempt.

  Robby began to run around and, bending down, he scooped up a handful of snow to throw at his brother. Bob restrained the boy, shaking his shoulders before pulling him to stand beside them at the graveside.

  Joan wasn't listening as the vicar began his intonation, her mind on her plans. As she had told Yvonne, they were in for a shock. When this was over she'd allow them in her house for one last time and then, if her plan worked, she would never have to see the lot of them again.

  Joan was brought back to the present as Danny threw a flower into the grave where it landed on top of Dan's coffin. As the others did the same, Joan saw the vicar moving towards her. She didn't want to hear his platitudes, his talk of Dan being in a better place. Huh, she just hoped it wasn't true because as far as she was concerned her husband should rot in hell.

  Joan ignored the vicar's outstretched hand, turning instead to head for the car that was to take her home. She was ready now, ready for the confrontation, her mouth set in a grim line as she settled back in
her seat.

  It wasn't a long drive, hardly time for her feet to thaw before Joan got out of the car, only pausing long enough to thank the man who had held the door open. In a few minutes she was indoors, and though she had banked up the fire, it had burned low. She hurried to add more coal. Taking off her coat, she stuffed her feet into slippers whilst her eyes flew to the document tucked behind the clock on the mantel-piece. She waited then, looking out of the window, until shortly after they all walked into the alley.

  Joan flung the front door open. ‘Danny, Bob, Maurice, Chris,’ she snapped, ‘I want to talk to you. Not you, Sue,’ she ordered as the woman moved forward, dragging the boys. ‘Nor you, Yvonne.’

  Sue shot daggers, but Joan didn't care. Yvonne looked sad and for a moment Joan almost wavered. She was fond of Danny's wife, more than fond, and if just one of them could remain, she would want it to be Yvonne.

  Joan walked back inside, the boys following her, with Chris, the last in, closing the door.

  ‘Right, this is your father's will,’ she said as she took the document from behind the clock, ‘and I suggest you sit down before I read it.’

  They each took a seat, all looking at her expectantly, so taking a deep breath, she began. ‘Before I read the will, I'd like to know how I stand financially. How is the yard doing?’

  ‘Mum, I know that Dad wouldn't want you to worry about the business,’ Danny said. ‘You can leave all that to us. The yard's doing all right and we'll see that you're taken care of as usual.’

  Joan smiled thinly, her eyes sweeping over her sons as she opened the document. ‘I was with your father when this was drawn up. It's been in my possession ever since, and before you ask, it's the only will he made. Now I won't go into all the legal jargon, or read it word for word, as the sooner you get out of here the better. All you need to know is that everything, your father's entire estate, has been left to me.’

  ‘What?’ Maurice cried. ‘But he can't do that. What about us?’

  ‘You are mentioned, all of you. Your father says that he'd like you to run the business, continuing to take a cut of the profits each month as wages.’