by Roberta Kray
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not bothered about those two morons.’
She laid her hand on his arm as he went to leave. ‘No, I’m sure you’re not, but you won’t be the poor sap doing all the clearing up when it kicks off again.’
His gaze slowly slipped down to her hand before his mouth curled into a smile. ‘Iris O’Donnell,’ he said, ‘you’re a very practical woman.’
Chapter Two
Luke Hamilton walked into the kitchen and dropped his briefcase on the floor by the table. He took off his jacket, threw it over the back of a chair and sighed. His afternoon meeting had not gone well - the client had ripped his ideas to shreds - and then there had been a problem with the trains at Liverpool Street. He had spent over an hour in the pub before finally forcing his way on to an overcrowded cattle truck.
Iris was standing by the stove, stirring one of her stews. In the past they had taken it in turns to cook but now, with him working longer hours, she usually had a meal on the table by the time he got home. This had been a novelty at first, but now he resented it. Or, more to the point, he thought that she should resent it. The old Iris, the sassy one with attitude and passion, would have told him to make his own damn dinner.
She looked over her shoulder. ‘Good day?’
‘Not especially.’
When he didn’t elaborate, she turned back to the stove. ‘Me neither. There was a punch-up just before we closed. One of the lounges took a right battering. You should have seen the state of it. I had to stay and help clean up.’
‘Really.’ Luke wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t particularly interested either and made no attempt to hide it. Opening the fridge, he grabbed a beer and flipped off the lid. He couldn’t understand why she was still working at that place. A few weeks was all it was supposed to have been, a gentle introduction, after what had happened, back into the world of employment, but three months on she was still there. How anyone could bear to be surrounded by dead bodies all day was beyond him. It gave him the creeps just thinking about it.
‘It was Lizzie Street’s family,’ she said.
Luke leaned against the counter and shook his head. The name didn’t mean anything to him.
‘You remember?’ Iris prompted. ‘It was on TV, in the papers. She was shot in her house a couple of weeks ago.’
He snorted. ‘Hardly news round here.’ The borough of Kellston, for all its aspirations, for all its fancy new apartments and shops, was still fundamentally an East End dive full of villains, tarts and junkies. Hemmed in between Bethnal Green and Shoreditch, it also wasn’t far from the gloomy streets of Whitechapel, where Jack the Ripper had gone on his murderous spree. He wondered why he’d ever agreed to move into the area, although he already knew the answer - to please Iris. This was where she’d been born, where she had last seen her father and where, somewhere in the back of her mind, she undoubtedly hoped to see him again.
‘She’s being buried tomorrow.’
‘You shouldn’t be working there,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe.’
Iris lifted her slim shoulders and smiled. ‘It was a punch-up, Luke, not a massacre. I think I can just about handle the dangers of a funeral parlour.’ She caught his eye, saw the look in it and smartly returned her attention to the pan. What he really meant, she thought, was that her job wasn’t suitable for the partner of an ‘executive’. Ever since his promotion, Luke had become increasingly pretentious. Everything now was about appearances, about money and status. He’d changed. She gazed down into the brown sludge of beef and vegetables. Or maybe she was the one who had changed.
‘You could do better,’ he said, refusing to let it drop. ‘I’ve heard there are vacancies at Cleary’s. With your experience you’ll get an interview, no problem. Why don’t you give them a call?’
Iris felt her stomach shift. The thought of returning to that cut-throat world, of working for yet another advertising firm, filled her with dismay. What did it matter what sort of tea you drank or what kind of washing powder you used? It was all so meaningless. She took a deep breath. ‘It won’t be forever. I’m only covering while their usual receptionist is away.’
‘But you’ll think about it?’
‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘Of course I will.’
‘Good. Your talents are wasted on that place.’
With a thin smile, Iris spooned the stew out into bowls and placed them on the kitchen table. That he believed the best use of her talents lay in persuading people to buy what they didn’t really need both saddened and confused her. She had only got the job at Tobias Grand & Sons by chance, but for the moment, it suited. Concentrating on other people’s grief had proved to be a surprisingly effective way of dealing with her own.
They sat down and ate in silence for a while.
‘Perhaps we should think about moving,’ Luke said. ‘A fresh start.’
A flutter of panic rose in her throat, giving her voice a tight uneasy edge. ‘You want to move away?’
‘Not out of London, just somewhere more . . .’ He took a mouthful of food and chewed. ‘I don’t know. Somewhere safer.’
Iris raised her head and gazed out of the window. From here she could see the floodlit perimeter wall and the locked, heavy-duty security gates. Silverstone Heights resembled an inner-city prison, the only difference being that it was designed to keep the less desirable locals out rather than in. The complex of apartments was exclusive in every sense of the word. It had been Luke’s idea for them to live in this splendid isolation; she would have preferred to be out in the real world, but occasionally compromises had to be made. ‘You mean somewhere with more ferocious guard dogs?’
‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he said irritably. ‘Kellston might be up-and-coming, but it’s taking a damn long time to get there.’
And it would take even longer, Iris reckoned, if the wealthier residents continued to segregate themselves from the general population. It was an opinion, however, that she chose to keep to herself. Luke often got grouchy when he’d been on the booze and he’d clearly had a few already. His brown eyes were bright and his cheeks were growing pinker by the minute.
‘Take what happened to that woman, for example,’ he continued. ‘It’s not right. People aren’t even safe in their homes any more.’
Iris was tempted to retort that from what she’d heard about the activities of Lizzie Street, the local crime figures, were likely to go down rather than up, at least temporarily. But that would only give him an excuse to start banging on about guns and gangsters and how ‘decent people’ couldn’t sleep safely in their beds at night.
Luke shovelled the stew into his mouth, barely tasting it. He took a swig of beer. The more he thought about moving, the more attractive the idea became. He was earning good money now and could easily afford to have an address that didn’t result in the lifting of his colleagues’ eyebrows every time he mentioned it. And it would be better for Iris too. This flat, this whole area, held too many bad memories. Although he had, briefly, come to terms with the prospect of being a father, he felt a guilty relief that it wasn’t going to happen. Parenthood wasn’t what he’d planned for this stage of his life.
‘I don’t want to move,’ she said softly.
Luke didn’t reply. She wasn’t thinking straight and hadn’t been ever since the miscarriage.
Every conversation he had with her these days held undercurrents of tension; it was all about what wasn’t said rather than what was. He didn’t know how to change it and a part of him, although he wanted to be closer to her, dreaded being pulled down again into that whirlpool of emotion. How long was it supposed to take for a woman to recover? It was almost six months now and she was still a shadow of her former self.
Iris could see the frustration on his face. He had been patient at the beginning, loving and supportive, but had gradually grown more impatient as time passed by. She wished she could explain how she felt, but she couldn’t. She might only have been ten weeks’ pregnant, but the loss was so profound
she was still struggling to come to terms with it.
Seeing her stricken expression, Luke felt a pang of conscience. ‘Why don’t you splash out and buy yourself something nice for Friday.’
‘It’s only a meal,’ she said. ‘I don’t think Michael’s expecting us to dress up for the occasion.’
‘Michael?’
‘His birthday.’ She paused, frowning. ‘Why, what did you mean?’
‘Oh God, not this Friday. It’s the Christmas do at Rufus Rigby.’
She groaned. ‘But it’s only November.’
‘They always hold it in November. Any later and half the clients won’t turn up. You know that.’
Iris blinked at him. She didn’t know any such thing. He had only been in the job for twelve months and this time last year they’d been too busy with the move to even think about parties. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I did. I told you weeks ago.’ He tilted his head towards the calendar stuck to the fridge. ‘I even wrote it down.’
‘Then why didn’t you remind me? I said last night that I’d booked a table.’ She realised he couldn’t have been listening to her - just as she had not been listening to him. It was symptomatic of the general breakdown in communication between them. ‘So what are we going to do?’
‘You’ll have to rearrange. Tell him we can’t make it.’
She shook her head, annoyed. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not? We can change it to Saturday.’
‘It won’t be his birthday on Saturday.’
Luke shrugged. He could see she was upset, but refused to feel bad about making the suggestion. Michael O’Donnell was fond of a pint and, with nothing better to do, he’d probably spend most of the day in the pub with his mates; by seven o’clock he’d be completely smashed. Even if the dates hadn’t coincided, Luke wouldn’t have relished the prospect of spending the evening with him. As it was, there was no way he was going to pass over one of the most important networking occasions of the year for a cheap meal with a lousy drunk.
‘I thought you liked him.’
Luke stared at her. He could see the direction this was going in and tried his best to cut her off. ‘I do. Of course I do. For heaven’s sake, it’s got nothing to do with that.’
‘Hasn’t it?’ Iris narrowed her eyes and stared back. ‘You haven’t seen him in ages. Every time I go round, you make some excuse. You’re always making excuses and now—’
‘That’s rubbish. I’ve just been busy.’
‘You find him embarrassing.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he snapped.
But Iris knew it was true. She couldn’t deny that Michael could get a little loud when he was on the booze - it didn’t take much encouragement for him to burst into song or to start regaling total strangers with some of the more colourful stories of his life - but he had a good heart and was the nearest thing she had to a father. ‘He’s been good to me.’
Luke shrugged. When he’d first encountered Iris, he’d been completely bowled over by her. Infatuated, even. With her slim figure, long red hair and green-grey eyes, he had thought her the most stunning girl he had ever met. And it wasn’t just her physical attributes, or her zest for life, which had fascinated him so much: he’d also been intrigued by her association, if only marginal, to the villainous underworld of London. Back in Manchester, he’d even bragged to his pals about it. But things had changed a lot since then. Now he preferred to keep his mouth buttoned about some of the less savoury pastimes of her relatives. ‘This party’s important; it’s my job we’re talking about.’
‘Michael’s birthday is important too.’
‘I’m sure he’ll understand.’
Iris bridled at his dismissive tone. ‘Understand what? That I’d rather swig champagne with a bunch of overpaid, immature morons than spend the evening with my own uncle?’ She bit down on her lip. It was an unfair retort and she instantly regretted it. She had only spoken so rashly because she resented his presumption that Michael should take second place to his glittering career.
‘Well, if that’s how you feel,’ Luke said, abruptly standing up and snatching his jacket off the back of the chair. His eyes flashed with anger. He got as far as the kitchen door, glanced along the hall and stopped. ‘I’m going to the study. I’ve got work to do.’
Iris pushed aside the bowl and put her elbows on the table. She knew he would have flounced out of the flat if he hadn’t been so worried about all the muggers lying in wait for him.
Chapter Three
Iris turned up the collar on her coat as she walked through the gates. She was glad to be outside; the atmosphere over breakfast had been as frosty as the winter air. Luke hadn’t come to bed, making a point by spending the night in the spare room. He was not a man who dealt well with conflict and for all his newly acquired sophistication was still more than capable of behaving like a sulky teenager. He had eaten his toast in silence, his eyes occasionally flicking up to stare at her accusingly. She had felt the tension between them like a thread pulled tight and about to snap. In the end, unwilling to have the argument hanging over them all day, she’d offered up another of those compromises.
‘What if I call Michael and see if I can arrange to take him for lunch instead?’
He had thought about this for a few seconds before replying, ‘I’ll be at work. I won’t be able to make it.’
‘I know.’
But even in victory, Luke was incapable of being gracious. ‘If you’d just listened to me in the first place . . .’
Iris frowned as she crossed the road. She was sure Michael would understand, but she didn’t want him to have to. He’d been good to her since she’d come back to Kellston.
Meeting the jailbird uncle she hadn’t seen in years, whom she only barely remembered, had been a daunting prospect, but he’d instantly put her at ease and made her feel not just welcome, but cared for too. Now a week didn’t go by without them seeing each other or talking on the phone.
As she cut down on to the High Street, Iris began to think about her father. She still automatically scanned the faces of every passing male of a certain age, hoping to catch a glimpse in their features of the man who had disappeared nineteen years ago. Would she recognise him? She was sure she would. Unlike her mother, she refused to believe that he was dead.
Kathleen O’Donnell hadn’t been happy about her only daughter moving back to Kellston. She had screwed up her eyes, put her hands on her hips and stared at her. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re both earning good money. There are plenty of nice places you could live.’
‘What’s wrong with the East End?’
‘It’s not safe, love. It’s full of . . . well, junkies and the like.’
Which had been pretty much Luke’s opinion too until Iris had managed to persuade him otherwise. She smiled wryly. That was back in the days when she could persuade him to do pretty much anything. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets and tried not to think about the call she would have to make to Michael.
Iris gazed around as she walked, taking in the familiar landmarks: the infant school she had attended, the small expanse of the Green, the old sweetshop on the corner that was now an organic farm store. She passed Ruby’s, the jewellers, and noticed how smart it had become. Yes, things had changed in her absence, but not beyond recognition.
It wasn’t hard to explain the pull this place exerted on her; it was where she’d been born and where she had lived for the first seven years of her life. Most of her memories were happy ones. Having spent so many of the subsequent years moving around, shifting from one part of the country to another, she was desperate to find somewhere that would finally feel like home.
Iris stepped up the pace, feeling the cold start to bite. She took a deep breath. It was weeks since Bonfire Night, but she could still detect the lingering smell of fireworks. It was one of those smells that conjured up her childhood, her father’s fingers wrapped tightly around hers, that distant ti
me - maybe the only time - when she had felt completely safe and secure.
Tobias Grand & Sons lay in the less developed, northern end of the High Street, the premises jammed between a florist and a charity shop. Here all the establishments were a little scruffier than their southern counterparts, and the exterior of the funeral parlour, like its neighbours, was in sore need of a lick of paint. As Iris approached, she noticed that a small crowd had already gathered at the entrance. Two plumed black horses, along with a Victorian-style glass hearse, were also standing in wait. Some of the people had probably been drawn by the spectacle - this was going to be a traditional East End funeral - others, including members of the press, by the prospect of seeing Terry Street come to bury his murdered wife.
Iris slid between the onlookers, opened the door and quickly closed it behind her. She shrugged off her coat. It was warm inside and the heady scent of lilies wafted through the air. The reception area was in the process of being cleared, all the furniture being pushed back against the wall to create a wide open space for the mourners to congregate before proceeding to the church. At the back there was another smaller room where the grieving widower, with his prison escort, would be able to spend some private time with his sons.
Gerald Grand, dressed in full funeral regalia, was strutting around, barking out orders. He gave her a brief nod as she came in. His long, rather hang-dog face looked even more lugubrious than usual and a pale sheen of sweat glistened on his bald head. It was a big day for Tobias Grand & Sons and the consequences, should anything go wrong, could be more than financial. He was right to be anxious. Neither Terry Street nor his offspring were the forgiving sort.
Iris took her coat and bag through to the kitchen area. She checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothed down her hair and hurried back to help. Within half an hour she had despatched the order of service cards to St Mark’s, made sure all the flowers had been delivered and sorted out the refreshments. As requested by the Streets, she placed a pot of strong ground coffee in the private room, along with a jug of fresh milk and a bowl of sugar. The best china was out on display. For the reception area, there were two large urns, one of tea, one of hot water. There was also water, orange squash and instant coffee for anyone who could be bothered to make it.
