He laughed. In a sense, the woman continued dangerously naive. ‘Some of us who practise north of Watford do have influence, you know. And we aren’t deaf.’
‘I’m so pleased for you.’
‘And I am warning you, Elaine.’
‘Are you? And those you seek to destroy by your lies don’t deserve such treatment. Feel free to talk to them and their families, since all are welcome visitors at my parties.’
Bob paused for a few seconds before replying. Perhaps she wasn’t naive at all. Her dinner parties were likely to be great successes, because she was a perfectionist to the point of obsession, but what did her dinner parties hide? She had a great brain and was clever enough to work out that her body was worth money. The fashion designers of Europe paid her well, but men of real means probably paid more. She had made herself into a socialite, possibly with a male companion by her side, a stooge whose sole purpose would be to deflect rumour. But rumour had begun to seep northward and must be rife in the capital. ‘How much does a high-class whore earn these days, Elaine?’ It was fleeting, but he was almost sure that uncertainty visited her eyes until she blinked it away.
‘Mum!’ she called.
Bob stood back to allow Christine to take his place.
‘Please visit us soon, Elaine,’ Christine begged.
‘I shall. But I must go now. Things to do, people to see. Enjoy Paris.’ She drove away.
Christine spoke to Bob. ‘Is she all right?’ she asked.
‘She’s just as she was when she worked with me,’ he replied truthfully.
Christine noted that the words had been chosen with care. Her daughter, successful in the world of modelling, a proven favourite in law, was not happy. Elaine seemed to have no capacity for happiness. ‘Bob?’
‘Yes?’
She breathed deeply. ‘Did you have a relationship with her?’
‘No,’ was his immediate reply. ‘I spent an afternoon with her at my house, but I couldn’t . . . it seemed I didn’t come up to scratch on her dance card. She’s needful, very needful.’
‘Oh? In what way?’
‘In every way. She demands constant attention. That’s just the way she is. Try not to worry about her. She looked beautiful today, didn’t she?’
Christine nodded. ‘All I want is for her to be happy.’
Bob just smiled. This good woman’s wedding reception had already been disturbed by Elaine, and he wasn’t going to make matters worse. ‘She’s having a great time, better than any debutante, always entertaining people, always travelling. I think she’s as happy as she’ll ever be, so stop worrying.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
When they returned to the house, the cabaret was under way. Mary Bartlett, the butcher’s wife, had teamed up with Hattie and Ida, and all three were ruining ‘Sisters’. Instead of the usual lyrics, they sang about their trades: ‘When a certain gentleman arrived from Rome, all Ida had to offer was Woman’s Own,’ and later, ‘Cauliflower, beans and ham on the bone.’ It was tuneless, it didn’t scan, and everyone loved it, especially those who had drunk more than a drop too much.
Linda’s mother, drunk and happy, sang ‘Danny Boy’, which brought tears to many eyes. The tears were not born of emotion, though many of those present were sad to hear the murder of such a pretty song. Chris Foley rescued the situation by producing a harmonica and leading a sing-song.
Norma kept an eye on the bride. It seemed that the brief return of Elaine had not done much good, because Christine was quiet. ‘If only she’d stayed away,’ Norma whispered to her son.
‘Snap,’ he replied. ‘My thoughts exactly.’
She decided not to leave the job to Polly. ‘I’ve bought a bungalow. This house is now in your name, so do as you like with it. Polly would like to live here. She told me so.’
He grinned broadly. ‘That’s right, kick me in my weak spot, Mother.’
‘Please live here, Frank.’
‘We probably will, so don’t start fretting. I’ll have to let the flat.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’ve improved in many ways, Mother. Thank you for the house. Polly will love the garden; so will Moppet when she gets mobile.’ He shook his head. ‘Imagine that. A mobile Moppet. When the screaming and nappies die out, the chasing around begins. I can’t wait.’
‘Oh, you’ll be all right, son. Polly can manage just about anything, can’t she?’
He blinked. Having suspected for some time that Mother approved of his wife, he was none the less surprised when she verbalized her opinion. ‘She’s capable. Keeps me in my place for a start.’
‘You love her.’
‘Always have, but she turned me down the first time I asked. And the second time, too. She finally married me for the Beano, the Dandy and a washing machine. I threw in a fridge, and made sure she was pregnant, so I had her cornered. It was damned hard work, believe me.’
Norma wasn’t fooled. Polly’s love for Frank was clear; it shone in her eyes every time she looked at him. ‘You seem to have some sense after all,’ she told him. ‘Whilst I was obviously without any.’
‘True, but you’re getting there.’ He looked round to make sure nobody was listening. ‘What did you really think of Elaine?’
‘The fashion model?’ She shrugged. ‘Something wrong with her. Christine deprived herself of all kinds just to get her through university.’
‘I know. The ingratitude of children, eh, Mother?’
‘It’s more than ingratitude, Frank. She needs help.’
‘Yes, she does.’ He knew that only too well.
Chris Foley had seen enough coffins to last him until he needed one for himself. ‘Whose bright and totally stupid idea was this?’ he asked.
‘Yours,’ chorused Frank and Polly.
The priest mopped his brow. ‘You should have had more sense than to listen to me. When did I last have an intelligent thought?’
Man and wife stared down at their paintbrushes. Polly scratched her head. ‘Erm . . . Frank?’
‘Give me a minute. I’m sick of this black paint. Er . . . he got the coaches to take us to London, had Kaybee neutered, decorated the kitchen after nearly burning it down. He must have had a bit of sense when he did those things.’ They both paused to study the parish priest of St Columba’s.
‘I doubt he leaves the price on the bottom of his shoes,’ Polly said.
‘Do you want a black eye?’ Frank raised his loaded paintbrush.
‘Not today, thanks.’
‘Or I could do you a red one if you’d rather.’
‘Trying to give them up,’ she said before turning on their ordained friend. ‘You said it was multiple murder by the authorities. You said we had to have cardboard coffin lids, black on one side, white with red writing on the other. One for each street, one for each business, one for each church and school. You’re on churches and schools, Frank’s on businesses, and I’m on the streets.’
Chris shook his head sadly. ‘Frank, you must get Polly off the streets. She’s enough to do without selling her body for recreational purposes.’
Frank laughed. ‘No, she’s given it up, because they wanted change out of a ten-bob note. She wore out four pairs of shoes, but her mattress is still brand new, practically unused.’
Chris eyed the relatively new bride. ‘Is she no good?’
Frank shook his head. ‘She’s rubbish. Except when she’s with me.’
They all continued painting their miniature coffin lids. The London march was just weeks away, so Ida and Hattie were busy collecting signatures for the petition. Although their protest might have little or no effect, it was vital that parliamentarians understood that people had power.
‘How’s the cafe?’ Chris asked.
‘A riot,’ Polly replied. ‘Carla and her husband have moved in. Their surname’s Cook, and customers were calling them Can’t Cook, but Cal gave them some lessons. Hattie sometimes helps with breakfasts, so her shop doesn’t open till ten o’clock, and Ida does dinners, bec
ause she has a lad who serves in the newsagent’s. They’ve had the fire engines out once, but people kept going in for the entertainment value. At the start, everything was either raw or overdone, and the accidents continue, but it gives folk something to gossip about.’
Frank laughed. ‘They’ll keep going till the bulldozers arrive.’
‘Did you hear about Jimmy Nuttall?’ Chris asked.
‘What about him?’ Frank sat back on his heels. Painting in black was very depressing.
‘He soled and heeled his boots with his first lot of bacon, said they lasted a lot longer than when the cobbler mended them. Oh, and he said the eggs were so hard-boiled, they’d have done as golf balls if they’d been a different shape.’
‘Never mind the golf, Father Chris,’ Polly advised. ‘There’s God and there’s golf, and they both begin with G, but don’t confuse them. Paint your lids.’
Chris painted his lids. Women these days were very bossy.
The lift attendant didn’t think much of the newest tenant of Hogarth Court. She was a snob. Blissfully unaware of his own inverted snobbery, he scarcely looked at her whenever she encroached on his beautifully kept territory.
She settled herself on an upholstered bench, her feet resting on good Wilton carpet. Desmond was on duty today. He wore an interesting and rather regal uniform, and she approved of his existence, but he was too low down the pecking order to merit much attention. He closed the gates and pressed the button for her floor.
Desmond, used to lords, ladies, the high-born and the well educated, shared her unspoken opinion. She was merely middle class, which fact was displayed by her silence. Other residents spoke to him, allowed him to help with the carrying of shopping; they shared jokes and anecdotes, treated him like a human being. Members of the middle class were different. They looked over their shoulders at their ancestors, who were almost invariably working-class, and they feared a return to that status, so they gave themselves airs. Well, he knew what she was, and he had no intention of attempting to communicate with a beautiful slut.
He opened the gates and stood back while she lifted her suitcase and walked towards her own door. As ever, she moved gracefully, perfectly, every inch the catwalk clothes horse, the socialite, the beauty. But he knew what she was. He knew she had acquired a key to the back stairs, that it had been copied and that her ‘customers’ used it.
To keep things looking tidy, those same men brought their wives to supper or cocktail parties; on those occasions, they used the lift. He knew them, knew they were figures of importance. He also had friends in Fleet Street . . .
Alice and Mark awaited the arrival of Elaine. Mother and son, they worked for Miss Lewis and were well paid to guard her secrets. Alice was supposed to be the maid, while Mark played the part of fiancé to the owner of the establishment. Although his natural orientation lay in the area of other young men, he was happy to help Mum and Miss Lewis in their business.
Alice’s real function was mostly secretarial. She kept the diary, lined up appointments, arranged bedroom equipment to suit each of Madam’s clients, supervised cleaners and looked after her employer’s many special garments. There were men who wanted chastisement, others who preferred a nurse or a schoolgirl, a few who needed straightforward and unadorned sex, a couple who required near-strangulation in order to be satisfied.
Alice admired her boss. She had a cool, pragmatic view of this area of her life, and was always ready to experiment, because she was one of the few who actually enjoyed the work. There were a dozen regular clients, all in dire need of absolute discretion, every one of them certain that they could trust Elaine and Alice. Mark, who lived elsewhere, was brought in for dinner parties, since he was a shield behind which Elaine could be concealed during such events. Fortunately, Alice was a good cook, so the social occasions were always successful.
Elaine came in.
‘How was it?’ Alice asked.
‘Dim, small and boring. Hello, Mark. Get me a gin and tonic, large, no ice.’ She dropped her suitcase and fell into an armchair. ‘Still, I don’t have to worry about my mother, do I? She’s married a private detective, so she’ll be well guarded.’
Alice nodded. ‘The phone’s been red hot. I told them to wait until the Milan show’s over. Sir Naughty Boy was rather petulant.’
‘Let them wait, Alice. They’re so grateful when they finally get to see me. Am I packed for Milan?’
‘Yes, indeed. Did your mother enjoy her day?’
Elaine took her drink from Mark. ‘I think so. She was beautifully dressed, so it seems he can keep her in the manner to which I encouraged her to become accustomed. I made sure they didn’t get this address. Can you imagine them turning up while I’m chasing Lord Whip-me through the flat? They’d have heart attacks, I’m sure.’
Alice chuckled. Even she retired to her own room when some of the clients were here. ‘Did you give them the Paris key?’
‘Yes. No one’s in Paris for a month or so. My manager approved the arrangement. So.’ She drained her glass. ‘Hair, nails and facial Tuesday, rest day tomorrow. Must look my best.’ She left and went into her bedroom.
Alice eyed her beloved son. ‘We’ll be all right,’ she told him.
‘Oh, will we?’
‘Of course. She has as much to lose as anyone.’
‘She could bring down a government,’ he said.
‘But she won’t. She’s a cool customer.’
Mark nodded. ‘Needs no ice in her drinks because she’s made of it.’
‘Stop it. She pays our wages, so remember that. And don’t tell any of your boyfriends about what goes on here unless you want to go back to a grubby bed-sitter while I serve my sentence in jail.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not stupid. But I’m telling you now, Mother, she’s sailing close to the wind. The comings and goings will be noticed.’
She nodded. ‘Perhaps. But if I get wind of trouble, you and I will be two of the goings. I’m too old for prison. Off you trot now. Geoffrey will be waiting for you.’
He kissed his mother and carried Elaine’s empty glass into the kitchen.
When her son had left the flat, Alice sat for a while, hands folded in her lap. She was almost sure that Desmond, who awarded Miss Lewis some strange looks, knew what was going on. He hated her. Should she mention that? Not yet. Alice’s investment fund needed topping up, so she must take the risk. The Elaine Lewis Show had to go on; the main attraction enjoyed the work, anyway, liked dressing up, liked sex. Oh well. It took all sorts to make a world . . .
Fifteen
‘It’s not just us, then.’ Ida bit absent-mindedly into one of Hattie’s apples. ‘What?’ she asked when the shopkeeper glared at her. ‘Can you not afford a Cox’s Pippin, then? It’s coming to something if you can’t let a friend have a bit of fruit.’ She returned her ally’s glare with compound interest. ‘All right, all right, misery guts.’
Hattie folded her arms tightly. ‘That’s a top-layer show apple – I’ve polished it.’ Like many traders, Hattie knew how to make her display of goods look attractive. ‘If you were a kiddy, I’d be reporting you for shoplifting. Do I pinch magazines from your shop? Do I pay for me newspapers every week?’
‘No and yes,’ Ida replied. She rummaged in the pocket of her pinny and slapped a couple of pennies on the counter. ‘And as I was saying, it’s not just us on Scotland Road. They’re threatening Egypt as well. There’s been discussions and all that since Disraeli was in charge, but the French and our lot are going to start chucking some bloody big fireworks. It’s in the papers all the time, something to do with a canal everybody wants to drive their boats through.’
Hattie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Ships,’ she said. ‘It’s a ship canal between two seas.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘Then there’s all these White Russians,’ she murmured. ‘They’re not even Russians; I think they’re from Hungary.’
Ida emitted a long sigh. ‘Poor buggers. It’s Russia’s fault, though. The Reds are messing abo
ut in somebody else’s yard, then telling us, the French and the Israelis to leave that canal alone. I think Nasser sold it, so Egypt doesn’t own it. Nobody likes Nasser, and some say our lads are looking to shift him while they’re at it over the Suez Canal. The world’s gone crackers.’
‘Our Turnpike protest won’t be noticed.’ Hattie sighed. ‘The government’s more interested in money than people, anyway. Flaming Tories.’
Ida sat in the customers’ chair. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, queen. They’re all the bloody same whatever the colour or cut of their cloth. They get corrupted. There’s something soaked into all that fancy panelling and green leather down yonder, and it gets under their skin sooner or later like scarlet fever. It’s the whips, too.’
‘The whats?’
‘Whips. A three-liner means you’ll be dragged off your deathbed to vote. You go in at the start a free man trying to work for the folk who put you there, then you get whipped. Voting’s up to you, but the big boys put pressure on.’
‘With a whip?’
‘A whip’s just a bloke. Three lines is three lines marked under the order to attend. If you vote wrong, you’re finished. It’s just a different type of dictatorship.’
Hattie leaned on her counter. Ida was a great deal less daft than she usually appeared. ‘Been reading again, love? And talking to our Pol?’
‘No law against it as far as I know, Hat. I’ve got this library book at home called Westminster, Mother of Democracy – something like that. A Lord Somebody wrote it. It’s opened my eyes, I can tell you that for no money. Democracy? They’ve no flaming idea. We’ll be swept under the carpet like dead flies. See, we don’t want them wasting lives and money over in Egypt, but we don’t get a choice. Like I said, it’s a bloody dictatorship hidden under a thick layer of . . . oh, I don’t know. Of pretending to be decent. Why should they take notice of Scotty Roaders?’
‘Then why are we doing the march, Ida?’
‘Because we can. Because there’s no law stopping us. If we took farm animals with us, we could bring London to a full stop. As things stand, we’ll be just another semi-wotsit on their bits of paper. Semi-colon,’ she finished triumphantly.
A Mersey Mile Page 35
