A Winter Love Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  The landlord smiled at Art and then leaned closer as Art said quietly, ‘I need somewhere private for a spot of business for a few minutes, Bruce. Your dining room empty yet?’

  ‘Sorry, Art, got a few late eaters today. Tell you what, use the function room upstairs. Switch on the light to the left of the door as you go in, mate.’ Bruce had a lot of time for Art Franklin. Not only was his band the best in the country, as far as Bruce was concerned, but Art had no side to him, not like some he could mention. He had all sorts calling in his pub from the Palace and some of them fancied themselves rotten once they’d been on the television, but not Art. And he tipped well. ‘Want some drinks sending up?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Art slipped a folded note across the counter of the bar, which, although he protested, Bruce deftly pocketed.

  ‘Follow me,’ Art said over his shoulder to Margarita and Franco as he and Bonnie walked out of the bar into a long narrow corridor. The gents’ and ladies’ toilets along with the kitchen were off this, but Art made for the wide staircase at the far end that led up to an uncarpeted landing. He opened the door in front of them and switched on the light to reveal a long wide room complete with a small stage at one end and a number of tables and chairs stacked along the far wall. It smelt strongly of smoke and stale beer and was reminiscent of many pub function rooms that Bonnie had sung in when she was getting started in the business.

  Art let Margarita and Franco walk past him into the room before he shut the door, and his impassive face revealed nothing of his thoughts. So this old harridan was Bonnie’s grandmother? Well, well, well. And a nasty bit of work if he judged correctly. Who was the bloke, the grandfather? Whoever he was, he hadn’t so much as opened his mouth.

  Margarita was fully aware of who Art Franklin was – most people were even if they weren’t particularly inclined to that sort of music – but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Taking an aggressive stance, her chin jutting forward and her hands on her hips, she hissed, ‘An’ who are you when you’re at home, may I ask?’

  ‘Yes, you may ask.’ Art’s voice was calm, unconcerned. The woman was spoiling for a fight but he’d met her type before and she didn’t intimidate him in the slightest. ‘Art Franklin’s the name, Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Well, Mr Art Franklin, this is between me an’ my granddaughter, all right?’ Swinging round to Bonnie, she said, ‘And you, disappearing in the middle of the night with every penny I had, you’re nothing but a common little thief. What would all your fine friends say if they knew the truth, eh? About how you got started? Stealing from your own flesh and blood?’

  Any fear that Bonnie might have felt was swept aside by the evident pleasure, if not joy, that was written on her grandmother’s face. She was an evil woman, she always had been – bitter, twisted, and filled with a malevolence that tainted the very air around her. Art still held her arm, and now she extricated herself from his grasp, walking forward a step as she said, ‘I stole nothing from you. I took only what was rightfully mine and you know it.’

  ‘Do you hear her?’ Margarita appealed to Franco who still hadn’t said a word and looked as though he wished himself anywhere but here. ‘Can you believe the nerve of her? Running off with the contents of my cashbox and not a shred of shame. Brazen, she is. But that’s what comes from mixing pure blood with the scum of the streets.’

  ‘If you’re referring to my father there was never a finer man than him and I’m proud to have his blood running through my veins. But if we’re talking scum, what about what you’ve lived with for years? You know what he is. I see, now I’m grown up, that you’ve always known but you chose to turn a blind eye or put up with it, both probably, whereas my father never looked at another woman once he had met my mother. This pure-blood idea that you used as a weapon to try and make me feel inferior when I was a child is rubbish. My father knew that and so do I. As for you –’ she took another step forward and Margarita was forced to take a step backwards – ‘you’re as dirty and filthy-minded as him. You’re two of a kind.’

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that. And you needn’t think carrying on like this will stop me claiming what’s mine. I’ll go to the law when I leave here, you just wait, and then this fine life you’re living will be over. Mud sticks, madam. Remember that. Mud sticks.’

  ‘Do that, go to the police, I want you to.’ And as Art said, ‘Bonnie,’ she looked at him as she repeated, ‘I want her to.’ Her eyes on the furious face of her grandmother once more, Bonnie’s voice had lost its shrill tone and was weighted with intent when she said, ‘I shall tell them how you took the money from my da’s wagon and horse and all my earnings over the years and barely gave me enough to eat, how you used to hit me for the slightest thing and make my life a living hell. It was because of you my da felt he had to get enough money to leave the fair; you drove him to it with your spite and venom and his blood is on your head, you wicked old woman, you.’

  ‘Are you going to let her talk to me like that?’ Margarita’s face was scarlet with rage as she glared at Franco. ‘Say something.’ And when he just shook his head and said in a pleading voice, ‘Madge, leave it, let’s go,’ Margarita looked as though she was going to explode with rage. A sound came from her throat like the snarl of a dog and sheer hatred coated every word as she ground out, ‘You, all wind and water as usual. I might have known I couldn’t expect any help from you. Useless you are, good to neither man nor beast. But you’ll do as you’re told over this, by all that’s holy you will. You’ll back me for once in your life.’

  Bonnie was conscious of thinking that something fundamental had happened between her grandmother and Franco in the years since she’d last seen them. The balance of power had changed. Before she left the fair it had always been Franco who had the last word, who was the master in their relationship. But not now. This was on the perimeter of her mind as she said, ‘Let him do that, yes, let him do that. And I shall tell my side of the story there too. Have you ever wondered what made me leave that night, have you? Or perhaps you didn’t want to think about it too much because I know you’d seen the way he used to look at me, like he’d looked at Nelly and others. I was barely fifteen, a child still, but it made no difference to him.’

  She heard an intake of breath from Art standing slightly behind her and the look on his face must have been enough to alarm Franco because he sprang across the room with an agility that belied his bulk, taking them all by surprise, and was out of the door before anyone could stop him. As Art went to follow, Bonnie caught hold of his arm. ‘No, let him go, he’s not worth it. Please, Art.’ And as he tried to shake her off, she said again, her voice breaking, ‘Please, Art.’

  Margarita’s gaze snaked back and forth between them for a moment, but she clearly had a mind for her safety when she took in Art’s murderous expression. She edged past them but once on the landing couldn’t resist her parting shot. ‘I’ll have my day with you, girl. You see if I don’t. You’ll get what’s coming to you as God is my witness.’

  As Art made a movement towards her, Bonnie still clinging onto his arm, Margarita disappeared down the stairs after her errant husband, leaving a faint lavender smell behind her.

  ‘She’s gone, Bonnie. They both have.’

  The numbness had long since evaporated and now Bonnie’s legs gave way. Art caught her and supported her weight while he half-carried her across the room to where the tables and chairs were, pulling a chair out and sitting her down on it. The tears were oozing from her eyes now that reaction had set in and she was trembling uncontrollably.

  ‘Sit here, don’t move.’

  As she nodded her compliance to the order, Art was out of the room like a shot, returning quicker than she would have thought possible with a glass of brandy in one hand.

  ‘Drink it down, all of it,’ he said, holding it to her lips.

  Again she obeyed without protest, gasping and choking as the neat liquor hit the back of her throat.

  ‘All
of it,’ he encouraged, keeping the glass to her mouth until it was empty. ‘That’s it, good girl. You’re all right.’

  And the brandy helped, burning a fire down into her innards and clearing the faintness that had threatened to take her over. She sat with her hands to her face, and as the shaking and tears eased, a sense of shame and embarrassment crept over her. What must Art be thinking? She wanted the ground to open and swallow her. And her grandmother, she was so vile. And Franco . . . She shuddered, nausea rising in her throat before she willed it away.

  He must have noticed her shiver because the next moment he had put his coat over her shoulders, crouching down beside her as he said softly, ‘You’re all right, don’t worry. Just breathe deeply and take your time. You’re in shock but you’re safe. Bruce is bringing up some coffee in a few minutes.’

  She couldn’t look at him or speak, and it wasn’t until Bruce had been and gone that she nerved herself to straighten in the chair and meet his gaze. And that was nearly her undoing. She had prepared herself for distaste and disgust, for impassivity or coldness, but not for the softness in his face that made him look like someone else entirely. And his voice reflected the same emotion when he murmured, ‘Feeling better? Here, drink some coffee or you’ll be tipsy after all that brandy.’

  Bonnie did feel light-headed and she wasn’t sure if it was the brandy or the scene she’d just endured. She took a deep breath before she whispered, ‘What must you think of me?’

  For a moment Art was tempted to tell her but now was not the time. She didn’t need a declaration of undying love, he thought wryly. That would put the tin lid on her precarious self-control. Gently, he said, ‘The same as I have always done, that you are one amazing lady. There’s two spoonfuls of sugar in this coffee for shock, so get it down you.’

  ‘That – that was my grandmother and her husband. He – he isn’t my natural grandfather, he’s her second husband.’

  ‘Bonnie, drink the coffee. You don’t have to tell me anything unless you want to, all right?’ Much as he had wanted to get hold of the man who was apparently Bonnie’s step-grandfather, Art acknowledged to himself now that it was probably just as well she had prevented it. If he’d got it right and the dirty swine had done what he suspected, from what Bonnie had said, then he would have wanted to hurt him – badly. And a charge of grievous bodily harm or even murder and the ensuing publicity that would have inevitably embroiled Bonnie too was not what she needed. Not what either of them needed.

  Bonnie took a sip of the coffee and he saw that her hand was still shaking. No, he reiterated grimly. It was definitely as well he hadn’t got hold of the man.

  ‘I – I want to tell you,’ she said after a moment, putting down the coffee cup. ‘I want to explain. My grandmother won’t let this drop, not now she’s found me. She’ll want her pound of flesh, and it’s important you understand the truth.’ Even as she spoke she wondered why it was so important Art understood. Of course he was her boss, and if the papers got hold of it and she was cast in a bad light it would reflect on Art and the band, but it was more than that.

  Clearing her mind of everything but the story she needed to tell, she said slowly, ‘It started when my father went missing. No, even before that, I suppose. I knew my grandmother hated my father from when I can first remember. My mother was her only child and she, my grandmother, was possessive of her to the point of obsession . . .’

  Art didn’t interrupt as Bonnie’s story unfolded. It was clear she was keeping nothing back which he was glad about in one way. He’d spent many a sleepless night wondering about her background and feeling frustrated about the mystery surrounding her, but when she reached the night she had left the fair and the reason for it, his hands bunched into fists and he bitterly regretted not beating Franco into a pulp when he had the chance.

  Bonnie didn’t look at him the whole time she spoke, her gaze concentrated on her hands clasped together in her lap, but her voice didn’t falter and he was amazed at her strength. He had known she was remarkable, but not how remarkable, he told himself wretchedly, wishing he could take her into his arms and tell her how much he loved her, that she was his sun, moon and stars, that he adored her, worshipped her. But of course that was further away than ever now he knew the reason she shied away from any physical contact with the male sex.

  It was five minutes before she came to the end of her story and she had told him everything – about her struggles when she had first come to the capital; Enoch and Gladys’s parental love that had been balm to her soul; her doubts and fears that she was as good a singer as everyone said; even the fact that her reason for continuing to stay at Fairview was because the people there provided the family unit she craved. The only part of her past she kept to herself was the role Franco had played in Nelly’s life and the fact that he was Thomas’s father; it wasn’t her story to tell and would have felt like a betrayal of her friend.

  The room was very quiet when she finished speaking. She raised her head to look at Art and his eyes were waiting for her. ‘Are you very shocked?’

  ‘If you mean, do I want to kill that so-an’-so with my bare hands, then yes. Am I in awe of your bravery and strength, then yes again. And let me make one thing plain before anything blows up with your grandmother – we fight her together, all right? You’re not alone, Bonnie. You have friends, good friends, and I hope you count me among that number? Good. I can’t change the past for you but I can sure as hell see to it that the future is different. My protection is there for you, always. Whatever the circumstances, whatever the situation, Art Franklin is on your side.’

  He wanted to say so much more but forced himself to smile, and his reward was when she smiled weakly in return. ‘Thank you.’ It was a whisper. ‘I’ve never told anyone about – about him before.’

  ‘Then I’m honoured you trust me enough.’ Even though her revelation was going to cause him agony of mind when he thought about what she had gone through. ‘Are –’ this was difficult for him to say and he felt as though his guts were being ripped out at the thought – ‘are you still frightened of him?’

  ‘I have been. For years, ever since I ran away, I have been. But not now, no.’ She had looked at Franco today and seen a somewhat pathetic figure, she thought with some amazement. He had aged considerably and was losing his hair, and the muscled body he had always been so proud of was turning to fat. He still made her flesh creep, but then maybe that was inevitable. But frightened of him, no. A weight somewhere had lifted, and she voiced this, saying, ‘For five years he’s been there at the back of my mind, a threat, haunting me, I suppose, but seeing him today, that’s changed.’

  ‘Five years . . .’

  Art was staring at her oddly, and she said, ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just occurred to me you’re not twenty-three after all. You’re three years younger.’ And that made him even older than her, twelve years older to be exact. Funny but nine years older hadn’t seemed so bad.

  Bonnie was staring at him with some concern. ‘Is that a problem? It’s not like anyone else needs to know, is it?’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’ Pull yourself together, man. Twelve years, nine years, it made no odds. He had no chance with her anyway. He handed her the coffee cup she’d put down half full. ‘Drink up. I’d better be getting you home or that landlady of yours will have my guts for garters, especially if you walk in with the smell of brandy on your breath.’

  In spite of herself Bonnie had to smile. Hilda was a thorn in Art’s flesh on several counts. She still avoided picking up the telephone for as long as she could, hoping it would simply stop ringing, and when she did answer it she bellowed down the line with enough force, so Art complained, to burst his eardrums. She liked Bonnie home as soon as the clubs closed, and worried so much if Bonnie drove herself once it was dark that Bonnie had felt duty bound to avoid doing so as much as possible. But perhaps the greatest nail in her landlady’s coffin, as far as Art was concerned, was Hilda’s absolute distrust of
any males within the world of show business, and musicians in particular. She had made her feelings very plain about this the first time Art had called at the house, and in the two years since had not mellowed an iota.

  ‘She makes me feel like one of those dastardly moustachioed villians of the silent films,’ Art had said recently, having delivered Bonnie home in the early hours after a band member’s birthday party. Hilda had still been up. She had flung open the front door before Bonnie could even get her key in the lock, glowering at Art as she had said a curt, ‘Goodnight, Mr Franklin,’ and promptly shut the door in his face.

  Bonnie had giggled as he’d continued. ‘You know the sort, the ones who tie helpless females to the railway lines as the train is approaching. I mean, you’re a grown woman, for goodness’ sake, and she’s not even your mother.’

  ‘It’s nothing personal,’ Bonnie had tried to assure him. ‘She’d be the same with any man. She cares about me, that’s all, bless her.’

  ‘I’d like to “bless her”,’ Art had grumbled, but said no more on the subject that day. In truth he was torn. He would have liked Bonnie to have her own place, with Hilda out of the picture, but on the other hand he knew that the older woman’s concern for Bonnie was genuine and at least her protectiveness kept the other wolves away. It would be a brave man indeed who knowingly incurred Hilda’s wrath.

  They left the function room a few minutes later and outwardly Bonnie was composed, but once in the darkness of the street she had to will herself not to glance around. Art must have guessed how she felt anyway, because his voice held the soft note again when he said, ‘They’ve gone, Bonnie, I promise.’

  For now at least, he added silently to himself. But that vicious old crone would be back, as sure as eggs were eggs, with her degenerate sicko of a husband in tow, no doubt. Hell, what a pair. The grandmother had been after money, no doubt about that, and from what she’d said she would be quite happy to blackmail Bonnie into paying her if she could. Whether the woman would actually go to the police in view of what Bonnie had said, he wasn’t sure. In one way it didn’t matter, because he was damned if he was going to stand by and let that pair have any presence in Bonnie’s life. He hadn’t had umpteen years on the nightclub scene without coming face to face with the darker side of London life, and he counted more than one gangster among his friends. Speak as you find, he’d always determined, and what a man did when he left his nightclub was none of his business. But these people could put the fear of God into worse than Bonnie’s grandmother and the sleazeball she’d married, and he knew they’d be willing to help him. You didn’t argue with the people he’d got in mind, not unless you wanted to end up in the Thames with your feet tied to a block of concrete. Come to think of it, he hoped the husband did argue . . .