Aware of the amused eyes of the women present, and especially those of his governor, Fred felt his cheeks burn and cleared his throat. ‘No, thanks, Guv’nor. I don’t wanna go home with me breath smelling of drink. Me old lady would kill me.’
Frankie’s smile broadened. ‘Come on, Fred. You ain’t scared of your missus, are you? Besides, I asked you to have a drink with me. Now, you ain’t gonna let me down in front of all these lovely ladies… are you, Fred?’ The handsome face was a picture of benevolence, yet there was no mistaking the sinister note in the seemingly innocent request.
Fred swallowed noisily. ‘Yeah, all right, Guv’nor. Thanks, I don’t mind if I do.’
‘That’s it,’ said Frankie. ‘You fill your boots… and I don’t just mean with the drink, eh!’ Another gale of laughter followed, eliciting a sickly grin of strained mirth from the ill-at-ease Fred.
Frankie picked up a glass from a green onyx table at his side, threw back the contents with one gulp and got to his feet. ‘Don’t worry, Fred. I’ll let you off this time. But, Gawd blimey, you should’ve seen your face.’ Turning to the blonde woman still sprawled on the couch he grinned disarmingly. ‘See you soon, Mabel. Next time I come I’ll make sure I’ve got more time to spare!’ He gave her a broad wink and strode through heavy rose-coloured damask curtains into an equally plush lobby and headed for the exit, his henchman close on his heels.
Out on the street, Frankie looked sideways at the silent man and said tightly, ‘What’s up with you?’
Coming hastily to attention, Fred mumbled, ‘Nothing, Mr Buchannon. I was just worried about you missing your appointment with that estate-agent bloke. Only you said it was important.’
Frankie took out a gold pocket-watch, looked at it and nodded. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. It don’t pay to let these people think you’re too eager, know what I mean? Then again, I don’t want to miss him. Look, there’s a cab. Quick, Fred – on your toes, man! What you hanging about for?’
Eager to please, Fred ran out into the road, his arm waving furiously to attract the black, horse-drawn cab. ‘Grantham Avenue, Bow. D’yer know it?’
‘Course I know it. I’m a cabbie, ain’t I?’ The Cockney driver grinned from his perch.
‘Number sixteen. And get a move on. I’m late already.’
‘Right you are, Guv.’
Frankie climbed into the cab, leaned back and thought about his journey – and the reason behind it.
It was just over a year since his release from prison, but it seemed a lifetime. In that relatively short time, Frankie had expanded his small empire almost beyond recognition. Gone were the small-time protection rackets, and in their stead had grown a large organised profit-raking enterprise that extended to the West End. The two poky sweatshops had grown to ten, and brought in a weekly sum of money that hitherto Frankie had not made in six months. All of these new industries had been financed by a string of bank robberies, so well planned and executed that, although the police had been suspicious, they had been able to do nothing. The first thing Frankie had done was to hire two first-class book-keepers, who exerted their expertise to account skilfully for all of their new employer’s worldly goods. Yet still the police kept sniffing round, hoping to trip him up.
They’d have a long wait: Frankie had been planning the bank jobs for years. Years of spying out the land, making sure that the men involved could be trusted, going over minute detail again and again. The untimely prison sentence had been unforeseen and unfortunate. Yet even behind bars he had continued to plan for the future, and the time he had spent inside had fuelled his desire to be out of reach one day of the law.
Over the years he had become expert in covering his tracks, learning, often the hard way, from his mistakes. And now, with a small but select few of the local police force and judiciary in his pocket, he didn’t anticipate any major problems in the future.
Lighting up an expensive cigar, Frankie inhaled deeply and with much satisfaction. It had been a long, often frustrating haul, but he had planned well and bided his time and was at last reaping the rewards. Now it was time to take a further step up the ladder to respectability.
For years he had lived in hotels and boarding-houses, preferring not to tie himself down to one place so that he could move quickly when the need arose. Those times were now in the past, and Frankie was on his way to see a vendor’s agent with a view to buying a house.
The traffic was heavy at this time of day, the rush-hour, and it was another forty minutes before they reached their destination. Waiting anxiously to greet them was a small, dapper man in an ill-fitting striped suit and bowler hat, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of a bulbous nose. ‘Mr Buchannon?’ He strode towards Frankie, his hand outstretched.
‘I ain’t got much time. Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ Frankie moved past the man to stare at the house before him, and came to an abrupt halt. The property in question was grander than he had envisaged and, for a brief moment, he felt overawed. The detached three-storey house stood in splendid isolation from its neighbours. The heavy oak door was flanked by two white stone pillars on either side that held up the porch roof, with three red-stoned steps leading down to an attractive, diamond-patterned tile path through the middle of a good-sized lawn, bordered with flower-beds and shrubs. Frankie raised his eyes to the top of the house, to the attic storey, which was adorned with prominent eaves and elaborate brackets that formed a horizontal band of stone projecting from the outside wall. Below this were three large windows, with intricate surrounds that matched the two on the ground floor at either side of the porch. Frankie felt his heart begin to race. This was the kind of house he had dreamed of in his youth, after a long day scavenging for food to bring home to his mother, and during all those years when he’d been forced to make money in any way he could. There had always been something inside him that had made him want to pay his own way: at night when he had crawled into bed, bone weary yet triumphant at having brought home some contribution to his upkeep, he had longed for a place like this. He had always known that he would make it some day, and now that day had arrived.
Conscious of the other men’s curiosity, he pulled himself together. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager. ‘Have you got the key?’ he asked the agent.
The little man, sensing a sale, brought all his experience to the fore. ‘Of course, sir, of course. I wouldn’t have asked a gentleman like your good self to travel all this way for nothing. Please, follow me.’ Preceding Frankie and the open-mouthed Fred, he clicked open the wrought-iron gate and led the way up the tiled path.
‘Bleeding hell, Guv’nor. It’s a bit on the posh side, ain’t it?’ Fred muttered.
Frankie turned on him. ‘What d’yer mean? You saying it’s too good for the likes of me?’
Fred shrank back in alarm. ‘No, Guv’nor, course I ain’t. Not for you. I was talking about meself. I ain’t never seen a house like this, never mind gone inside one. It’s smashing, ain’t it?’
Mollified, Frankie aimed a light punch at Fred’s shoulder. ‘Yeah, it ain’t bad. Ain’t bad at all. In fact, it might be just what I’ve been looking for.’
‘Mr Buchannon, sir, if you’d like to follow me?’ the little man called anxiously.
Beneath his breath Frankie mimicked, ‘To the ends of the earth, darling.’
Fred snickered, then at a warning glance from Frankie, was silent.
Once inside the house they were both quiet as the man took them round fussily. ‘You’ll note the marble surround of the iron grate, Mr Buchannon, and the moulded skirting.’ He was proudly showing his client the main reception room. ‘These are indicative of all the grates in the house. And, if you’ll look up, you’ll see the beautiful plasterwork on the ceiling.’ Both men’s heads turned upwards in response. ‘The rose design is central only to this particular room, but each room has its own individual design of ceiling mouldings.’ The man bustled round, eager to show off his knowledge. When they had seen all of the do
wnstairs rooms, the agent said importantly, ‘Now, if you’d like to accompany me upstairs, gentlemen?’ As they followed him, Frankie ran his hand along the curved balustrade in wonder. They examined the four large bedrooms, with Frankie maintaining an air of aloofness, even though his heart was hammering inside his chest. Yet when the agent, his plump face etched in triumph, announced, ‘Here, sir, we have the pièce de résistance, the bathroom’, and threw open the mahogany door, the sheer opulence before him caused even Frankie’s breath to catch in his throat.
The gleaming white walls were tiled from floor to ceiling. In the centre of the room stood a huge claw-footed bath with gold taps and hand-rails, the like of which he had never seen before. The equally impressive wash-basin was framed by gilt-edged mirrors and a long, sweeping tiled ledge. In the far corner, discreetly concealed by a gold plush curtain, was the very latest design in indoor WC, looking far too grand for its functional purpose.
‘If you’ll allow me, sir?’ The agent, beaming with pride as if he’d designed the whole house himself, pulled at the wooden panelling beneath the sink to reveal a ceramic sink-like object, explaining effusively, ‘This is a bidet, sir. The very latest innovation for personal hygiene. The entire bathroom was designed by George Jennings, who also, may I add, won a gold medal at the Paris Exhibition in eighteen eighty-nine.’ At Frankie’s side, Fred Green’s open face was filled with undisguised awe. ‘Bleeding hell, Guv’nor. It’s too good to shit in!’
Frank whirled round and barked, ‘That’s enough. Wait downstairs!’
Fred, downcast, murmured, ‘Sorry, Guv’nor.’
‘Downstairs – now!’
‘Yes, Guv. Sorry, Guv.’
It was almost an hour later before Frankie left the house, his mind formulating ideas.
‘Did I mention the Italianate style, sir?’
Jerked from his reverie, Frankie said abruptly, ‘You what? I mean, pardon?’
‘The style of the external part of the house, sir. It’s Italianate, derived from the Renaissance palaces of Venice, Rome and Florence. It was established by Sir Charles Barry, most notably at—’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
The agent waited patiently, not at all taken in by his customer’s studied indifference. ‘If you’re not satisfied with this house, sir, I have many more I can show you.’
‘What? Oh, no, I don’t want to see any others just yet.’ Standing back a pace, Frankie looked hard at the house, his face impassive. ‘Before I make me mind up, I want to show me family. See what they think of it.’
‘Certainly, sir, certainly. And what time would be convenient for them, Mr Buchannon?’
Frankie considered, then threw back his shoulders and said confidently, ‘Flow about tomorrow? About eleven. I can have me family here then.’
‘Capital, sir, capital.’ The agent beamed delightedly, already spending the commission he would earn from the sale. ‘We’ll say tomorrow, then, at eleven o’clock. Good day to you, Mr Buchannon, and you, sir.’ He inclined his head towards Fred.
‘Right little arse-licker, he was, wasn’t he, Guv’nor?’ Fred said cheerfully, after the departing figure. But Frankie, absorbed in his own thoughts, didn’t hear him.
Chapter Eleven
‘So, when’s the wedding, then? Or has your intended put it off again?’
The sneering tone in Sally’s voice set Rose’s already frayed nerves further on edge. Concentrating on the task of cutting thick slices from a large crusty loaf, she replied tartly, ‘Why? Will you miss me when I leave, Sally?’
They were in the kitchen at the back of the Red Lion, taking advantage of a lull in trade to prepare the food for the evening rush.
Sally laughed brashly. ‘Yeah, I’ll miss you, like me arse’d miss piles,’ she said coarsely.
Rose winced but said nothing. In truth, Sally had hit a raw nerve. She had expected to be married by now, or at least to have a definite date for the wedding, but Jack refused to make any commitment until his promotion came through, even though his advancement to sergeant was assured. A pessimist by nature, he wouldn’t believe his achievement until the sergeant’s stripes were firmly on his shoulders. Then there was the business of him wanting a transfer out of London: he argued that they could have a better life away from the East End streets. But Rose suspected that Jack’s main reason for wanting to flit was to get her away from Frankie’s influence. Mary had been horrified by the idea and stated loudly and often that there was no way in the world she would ever leave her birthplace. But there was another, more pressing worry on Rose’s mind, which was growing with each passing day.
After that awful scene with Mary last year, Rose had refused at first to spend any more time at Jack’s flat. He had been sorely disappointed at first, but had agreed, reluctantly, to wait until they were married. It had been easy enough to make such plans in the cold light of day, but on the rare evenings when Jack persuaded her into his home temptation always proved too great. The last time had been over a month ago when Rose, her aunt’s drunken accusations still haunting her, had resolved not to take any more risks. Only it was looking as if the last time might well have been one time too many.
‘You look a bit green. What’s the matter, Rosie? Ain’t you feeling too good?’
‘Oh, shut up, Sally, and mind your own business,’ Rose snapped, which only served to exacerbate Sally’s teasing.
Widening her eyes in mock horror, the older woman exclaimed, ‘’Ere! You ain’t up the duff, are you? Not you. Not Miss Cast Iron Drawers—’
Rose turned on her. ‘Just shut your filthy mouth, Sally, or by God I’ll shut it for you.’
Sally leaped back at the ferocity in Rose’s voice, any more taunts silenced by the fury in the flashing blue eyes boring into her own.
As Rose stormed out of the kitchen, Sally watched her departure with quizzical eyes. ‘Bleeding hell! She has. The silly cow’s gone and got herself caught. Well, well, well! Now ain’t that a turn-up for the books.’
Out in the passageway, Rose leaned against the wall, fighting a rising sickness in her throat. ‘Please, God! Don’t let me be pregnant. I promise I’ll never do it again. Just don’t let me be pregnant.’
An irate figure burst into her line of view. ‘What the bleeding hell are you two playing at out here? I only asked you to make some sandwiches, not cook a bleeding four-course meal.’ Henry Dixon glared at Rose. Then his expression changed to one of concern at the sight of her stricken face. ‘’Ere, what’s up, girl? Ain’t yer feeling well?’
Swallowing hard Rose strove to put on a normal front. ‘No, I’m fine, thanks, Mr Dixon. Just came over a bit flushed. It’s hot out in the kitchen with the pies cooking in the oven.’
Dixon’s face cleared. ‘Well, if that’s the case, then get out into the bar and start serving.’ Looking past her he shouted, ‘And that goes for you, too, Sally. Get your arse out here now, unless you’ve come over all hot and bothered as well.’
Sally sauntered into the hallway, her face alight with merriment. ‘All right, all right, Henry. There’s no need to shout, I ain’t deaf.’ She pushed past Rose and ambled into the bar, her mouth spreading automatically into a wide smile for the punters.
When Frankie arrived at the pub just after nine o’clock, Rose had recovered her composure, managing to put her fears at the back of her mind for the remainder of the evening. When he saw her, Frankie headed towards her, leaned one arm on the bar and called, ‘How about some service, darlin’?’
Sally began to make her way down the bar to him but Rose reached him first. ‘Hello, Frank. What can I get you?’
‘The usual, please, Princess, and the same for the boys.’ He jerked his head at the two men standing behind him. ‘Then I want a word with you, in private.’
Rose looked worriedly over her shoulder to where the landlord was putting some money into the till. ‘I don’t know, Frank. I’ve still got another hour until my shift ends. I don’t want to take liberties.’
&nbs
p; Frankie gave a loud guffaw. ‘Don’t be daft. Henry won’t mind – will you, me old mate?’ he added, as Dixon came to join them.
‘Mind what, Frankie?’ he asked warily.
‘If Rose takes a few minutes to have a little chat with me.’ He glanced down the crowded bar and added, ‘You and Sally can manage without her for a bit, can’t you?’
‘Frankie!’ Rose interrupted. ‘Not now. You can see how busy we are.’
‘Rubbish.’ He waved dismissively. ‘I only want to borrow you for five minutes. Now, that ain’t asking much, is it, Henry?’ His eyes lifted to the stony-faced publican.
‘It don’t seem like I’ve got much choice, does it?’ Henry said, his voice steely.
Anxious to avoid any arguments, Rose led Frankie quickly to a nearby table. ‘I won’t be long, Mr Dixon. And I’ll make up the time at the end of my shift.’
Henry’s face relaxed. ‘That’s all right, love. You’ve only got an hour to go and Rita’ll be here soon.’
Rose sat down, flustered. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do this, Frankie, I…’
‘Do what, Princess?’ He looked puzzled. ‘Can’t I have a word with me best girl when I want to now?’
‘Not when I’m working, Frank,’ Rose replied, harassed. ‘You seem to think I’m playing some sort of game here, instead of trying to earn a living.’ As Frankie’s face darkened, Rose sought to appease him. She was feeling particularly fragile at the moment and unable to deal with any more bad feeling. Laying a hand on his, she said softly, ‘I’m sorry for sounding sharp, Frank. I – I haven’t been feeling too good today. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Forgive me?’
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