The Favourite Child

by Freda Lightfoot

‘Indeed I don’t. But I’d like to. Can I see you again, Bella?’ And before she had time to think of the consequences, she’d agreed to meet him the following Sunday evening in The Hare and Hounds on Broad Street.

  Dan was waiting for her at the door, full of apologies for their quarrel. ‘I was as much to blame as you,’ she admitted as they went into the house together, each anxious to give the impression that everything was fine.

  ‘Have you two had a nice time then?’ Violet asked, setting a mug of tea before them both the minute they walked into her kitchen. There never seemed to be a moment in the day when she couldn’t lay her hands on a pot of tea, and if she noticed any awkwardness between them, Violet was shrewd enough not to comment on it.

  ‘Lovers tiff,’ she informed Cyril as she climbed into bed beside her husband.

  ‘They’re getting on well then?’ he drily remarked.

  It wasn’t until Bella was curled up beside the children, drifting off to sleep that she remembered Quinn had used the shortened form of her name. And she hadn’t even realised she’d ever given it to him.

  Billy Quinn spent Sunday afternoon on the canal bank with his cronies as usual, taking part in one of their favourite occupations: gambling. He held a school there regular, putting a few of his best mates ‘on crow’ to keep a watch out for any rozzers idling by. Not that Billy Quinn had too many fears in that direction. He usually got wind in good time of any likely prowlers from the local nick, and several bobbies were ready enough to turn a blind eye in return for a useful tip now and then.

  He enjoyed his afternoons by the canal. They might almost be in the country were it not for the dusty grass, well flattened by lovers, soot-tinged dandelions and glimpses of coal tips between the bridges. A few yards further along he could see a group of men playing pitch and toss. On the far bank a whippet race was in progress, a lively crowd of onlookers eyeing up the dogs and judging where to place their bets. He was doing good business as a result. Len Jackson was busily collecting money, handing out tickets and chatting folk up as he persuaded them to lay down more than they’d intended. Quinn had carefully stationed himself beneath one of the canal bridges, the blackened brickwork scrawled with rude messages forming a secure back drop to the game of chance he was conducting.

  ‘Find the Lady’ was his chosen game for today, and no matter how carefully the punters might watch his clever, flying fingers, they never chose the right card, not unless he wanted them to. Now and then he’d allow them to win, in order to keep up their interest and draw them deeper into the game. Once they were hooked, he took them for every penny.

  His mind, however, wasn’t entirely on his work this afternoon. While he went through the motions, flicking, tossing, shuffling, running through the patter, his mind was turning over plans. Assessing, rejecting and finally devising a scheme in his wily brain that might serve his purpose nicely.

  Billy Quinn knew exactly what he wanted. Status. By this he meant power and respect. He needed to be a person of note in the community. Tales of bookies acting as philanthropists were rife in the streets of Salford and although that particular cap didn’t fit him well, he meant to try it on. But only when he had the wherewithal to afford to do so. It took money to buy power and status. A lot of money. And before he started lending it out piecemeal to the feckless, useless masses, he meant to set himself up in style first. A good house in the Polygon, a motor car to drive about town, flash suits, cigars … he could see it all.

  He wasn’t looking for the kind of power that came with the old style Scuttlers, the rough sort who held sway over their particular gang and swung belt buckles and clogs in street fights. He’d done a bit of that, of course, in his time, but Billy Quinn wanted the kind of power that carried with it respectability. Of a sort. The kind of status that brought people who otherwise wouldn’t have given him the time of day to come knocking on his door, asking for favours, donations and contributions to their various good causes. Billy Quinn meant to buy his place in the community, once he’d bought himself the life style he coveted.

  He coveted Jinnie Cook, had always enjoyed her. There was an innocence about that doe-eyed, elfin-faced girl which excited him. Although their coupling had become more or less routine, a physical necessity, it provided its own degree of pleasure. The fact that she refused to come back permanently still galled him. Maybe he’d take his revenge one day. Silly little tart.

  But was it enough? Were his needs changing?

  Jinnie Cook had led him to a much richer prize, one that would serve his purpose better. As luck would have it, she’d led him to a woman who could assist him in his quest for respectability and status far better than Jinnie ever could. This woman was not only class but a comely piece as well, no doubt about that. The light in her eyes had quite warmed the cockles of his heart. He was pleased with how well he’d managed ‘accidentally’ to bump into her. Not for a moment had she any idea that he’d been keeping an eye on her ever since that day when he’d followed Jinnie and her lover from Seedley Park. Oh, indeed, he’d set his sights on a different woman now. Isabella Ashton was the one he meant to have.

  He was late. Bella waited outside the public house, afraid to go in alone yet feeling painfully conspicuous as various groups of shabbily dressed men eyed her with open curiosity as they went inside or hung around the door. Stomach churning, she asked herself for the hundredth time what she was doing here. She should go now, escape while she could, before he arrived.

  ‘I didn’t think ye’d come. Like to slum it, do ye?’ He was standing before her, a smile of arrogant satisfaction on his handsome face.

  Bella swallowed, hating the thrill of excitement almost akin to fear that beat within. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ She lifted her chin in defiance yet meekly allowed him to lead her inside and without demur accepted the gill of dark brown stout he brought her.

  Afterwards he took her to the Salford Hippodrome to see a troupe of wrestlers. Bella had never experienced anything of the sort before: the smoky atmosphere, the clamour of rowdy enthusiasm that was almost tangible; the stifling warmth of so many none-too-clean bodies packed closely together. The wrestling, however, came as a surprise; more like circus acrobatics than serious sport. She watched, fascinated, even found herself shouting out along with the rest of the spectators. And Quinn, she noticed, would often be approached by men in caps and mufflers, discussions would take place, money quietly change hands and tension would mount. She could sense it in him, along with his relief when the right man won. His profits for the evening were such, he bragged, that he could afford to take her out to supper to celebrate.

  ‘Is it fixed?’ she dared ask as they sat eating oysters after the performance.

  ‘Not a question ye should ever ask of a bookie.’ He glowered at her, as if the question had offended him.

  Bella hastened to rectify her slip, feeding him an oyster by way of apology. ‘Then I won’t.’

  ‘Didn’t I take you for a sensible girl. Wrestling is a new sport. I hope it catches on since I reckon I could do well out of it. Billy Quinn is going places, girl, make no mistake about that. Folk of your class wouldn’t appreciate the importance of making one’s own way in the world, of being at no other man’s beck and call, because you’re too used to being the ones in charge.’

  Bella laughed. ‘Of course I appreciate it. I understand perfectly.’

  ‘Amuses ye, does it, that I have ambition?’ The soft Irish brogue had turned harsh, grating.

  ‘No, I admire ambition in a man.’

  Their eyes met and held. ‘There’s plenty that I admire about you too.’

  After that his natural animosity seemed to dissolve and, as they ate, he told her about his family in Ireland, about how he came to be in Salford following the many jobs, disasters and misfortunes he’d endured on the way. Bella listened, fascinated by this insight into a different world. Sometimes his fingers would brush hers as they both reached for bread, or he would pause in his tale to consider her carefully, his face unsmili
ng, and she would find herself blushing like a schoolgirl.

  When he walked her home Bella ached for him to hold her hand or put his arm about her waist. He did neither. Instead of taking her to Violet’s front door he led her instead down the back entry. ‘I’m more used to back doors,’ he told her by way of explanation. ‘And if yer going to be my girl, tis well ye get used to it.’

  Bella laughed in disbelief. ‘Who said I was going to be your girl?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Oh, and what you says goes, does it?’

  ‘Usually. Are you going to be the first to prove otherwise?’

  ‘I might,’ she said, affronted by his arrogance even while it excited her. She’d never met anyone quite so self assured. ‘You certainly have a very high opinion of yourself.’

  ‘Mebbe because I deserve to? Ye’ll get used to it. Ye’ll be like all the rest, eating out of me hand in no time.’ And giving a ripple of soft laughter he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  She went to him hungrily, opening her mouth to him, letting his tongue caress hers and the burst of emotion inside her was tumultuous. He half lifted her against the damp back yard wall, fumbling expertly with her clothing, his calloused hand rough and cold against her bare breast but she didn’t stop him. She couldn’t. She wanted him to caress her, to hurt her, to devour her, and Bella thought she might die of ecstasy if he didn’t take her there and then. But it was he who broke away first.

  They were both breathing fast, eyes wide and dark with desire. ‘Ye’d best get some of that stuff ye give out at your clinic afore we go any further, girl. I doubt I can keep me hands off ye fer too long.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was the following evening and Jinnie experienced the usual bolt of alarm to find Quinn waiting for her in the back entry on her way home from work. She longed with a passion that was almost crippling to be rid of him. If only she’d managed to summon up the courage to talk to Edward. If only she were strong and brave like Bella.

  To be given a taste of a new life only to be trapped by Quinn again she could weep, she really could, at the injustice of it. And all because Bella had been forced into making that stupid lie in order to get her family’s approval. For the first time in her miserable life Jinnie felt that she had some sort of security and a future, one she was fiercely determined to hang on to. She’d learned years ago to stand her own corner, to fight for what she needed to stay alive. Near starvation had driven her to hunt for food in rubbish bins and she’d flattened any other kid who’d got in her way. Despite her diminutive size Jinnie had learned, along with most in these streets, how to use her clogs as a weapon, and her fists too if need be. But never against Billy Quinn. He was one battle she could never win.

  Now he was calmly and quietly explaining that he needed proof that she was still trustworthy, that she hadn’t been in league with Harold Cunliffe and trying to cheat him.

  ‘Don’t I prove that every day by collecting the bets for you?’ Jinnie kept well back in the shadows of the back entry, anxious that neither Edward nor Simeon, should they emerge from the mill, would catch sight of them hobnobbing together.

  ‘And don’t I need to be sure of your undivided loyalty me pretty one.’

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it, what done poor Harold in?’

  Quinn laid one finger to the side of his nose and smiled his most chilling smile. ‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell ye no lies. Just you listen to what old Quinn tells ye, girl, and you’ll be right as ninepence.’

  Jinnie rather thought she might never be right again, not unless she slit his miserable throat with her own fair hand. The thought made her shake with an emotion that took her by surprise. Seeing her tremble, Quinn chuckled. ‘Don’t fret, tis nothin’ ye can’t handle. I want you to set up a Draw Club.’

  ‘What the hell’s a Draw Club when it’s at home?’

  The object, apparently, was for her to find fifteen to twenty women who were willing to pay sixpence a week to be members of the draw, which operated like a savings club. ‘Then you gives everyone a number and write these on slips of paper. Each week a number is drawn and that person wins whatever’s in the pot. Some will be lucky and get their winnings in the first few weeks, the others will have to wait longer. It’s a way of encouraging you women to save.’

  Struggling to understand, Jinnie thought it all sounded very complicated. ‘So, what’re trying to tell me, that you’re turning soft in your old age?’

  ‘A philanthropist my lovely. Isn’t that grand!’

  Jinnie was highly suspicious and struggled to find the catch. ‘And what do you get out of it?’

  ‘There now, don’t ye know me too well? Wouldn’t it be grand if I didn’t have me living to earn, like many another.’ Quinn grinned at her. ‘I takes a commission of course. One penny in every shilling.’

  ‘That’s highway bleedin’ robbery.’

  ‘It’s no worse than what they’d pay the moneylender.’

  Jinnie knew this to be true, knew that some charged more. ‘Hey up, but you aren’t lending them any money. It’s their own money.’

  ‘So it is, me lovely, so it is.’ He leaned closer and Jinnie shrank back further against the wall as he issued a dire warning in low ominous tones that she’d best not miss collecting a single week’s payment from the women. ‘Or ye’ll be in dead lumber, so ye will. Tell ‘em they has to pay, otherwise I’ll stew ye for me dinner.’ He seemed to find this thought amusing.

  A wave of sickness hit her. Here was the snag, a great big net to catch her in. ‘How can I make them pay? That’d be a nightmare, to collect sixpence off them week after week.’ Jinnie knew well enough the trouble the rent man had.

  ‘Aw, they’d pay right enough. Wouldn’t they be sorry to have any accident befall their sweet Jinnie? And if’n they don’t pay, they don’t get a draw.’

  Vainly she pointed out the difficulty in keeping up the interest of the ones who’d been given an early draw and must continue to pay up for the remaining weeks. ‘I’d have to keep books, records, nag at ‘em every week to pay.’ It would be a nightmare.

  ‘It’ll keep ye out of mischief, to be sure. Just don’t forget that ye must pay me my commission, regular, whether they pays up or not.’

  ‘What?’

  He cast her a questioning look out of dangerously hooded eyes as he reached for another sandwich; a look which spelled out a warning, that reminded her of the very vulnerable situation she was in. ‘Is there something I’m not making quite clear? Something ye don’t understand?’

  Jinnie swallowed, managing a tremulous smile. ‘No. No, Billy. I think I’ve got it right in me head now. I understand. A Draw Club it is.’

  ‘That’s good. Get on with it then, and see ye make it work. If’n ye know what’s good fer ye.’

  Jinnie experienced an unexpected surge of rebellion. She’d fallen on her feet when she’d been rescued by Bella from that hospital. Now she risked losing all that she’d gained: the excellent food that at last was putting flesh on her bones and making her grow healthy and strong, steady employment, the lovely frocks that Simeon kept buying her. And Edward’s love. It was this last and most telling thought which decided her. ‘To hell with it. No, I won’t do your dirty work. Go jump in the bleedin’ canal yourself, why don’t you. See if I care,’ and jerking her chin in the air she stalked proudly away from him.

  It was a moment before he moved and then, as always, his reaction was swift and lethal. He had her arm in a punishing grip and she wasn’t going anywhere, not without his say so. Quinn’s mouth came to within an inch of her own, and the menace in his voice seemed to pulsate through her. ‘That’s a terrible cruel thing to be saying to a chap who has done as much fer ye as I have.’

  Fury gave her the power to shake him off and Jinnie stood before him, arms akimbo, recklessly shouting at the top of her voice, hoping the whole world might hear. ‘You’ve done nowt but what suits your own nasty purpose. I don’t want yer damn money.’


  Quinn raised his brows in a parody of surprise. ‘Ye might not want it but ye surely need it. Ye can’t depend on that chap of yours to always provide for you. What’ll happen when he hears about the babby you killed, eh? What’ll he think of his sweet little Jinnie then?’

  Despair numbed her and all the fight drained from her. Jinnie couldn’t think what to do. Why was she even risking an argument? Billy Quinn had her trapped like a scared rabbit, no matter which way she turned. Yet if she didn’t fight, and win, wouldn’t he keep on squeezing her, more and more, till she was nothing but a wrung out dish mop.

  ‘I’m going home right now to tell Edward everything. I’d rather lose him through his knowing the truth, than be in thrall to a nasty bit of tripe like you for the rest of me livelong days. Do yer worst. I don’t give a damn.’ Tossing her head, she turned on her heel and strode away, frantically urging herself not to run. Quinn’s voice drifted after her, sounding clear and sharp in her ears, despite its soft Irish tones.

  ‘Do you give a damn what happens to Bella?’

  She was back before him in seconds, her young face pinched tight with fury. ‘What did you say? What the hell do you know about Bella? You’ve never even met her.’

  ‘Oh, but I have my lovely. I’ve more than met her. Haven’t I taken her out fer supper, and didn’t I give her a kiss not fifty yards from this spot? Aye, and wasn’t it grand? I reckon she enjoyed it, so I do.’

  Jinnie slapped him, right across the face. Until she saw her hand swing across she wouldn’t have known that she had it in her. But there it was, she’d struck Billy Quinn. Now she waited, breathless with terror, to see what he would do next. He’d done something nasty to Sadie, who’d never been seen again, and tossed poor Harold in the canal. Jinnie dreaded to imagine what might befall herself as a result of this latest dangerous act of folly.

  But Quinn was chortling with glee. He threw back his handsome head and actually laughed at her. ‘Tis like a flea batting an elephant. Ye’ll not hurt me that way, girl. Ye’ll not hurt me at all, no matter what ye does.’