She woke later in a dull mood and, refusing Mrs Gates’s offer to look after Josephine while she went to church with the others, said that she would stay behind and look after the dinner, as it baked, simmered and boiled over the gas on the kitchen range. She basted the turkey and roast potatoes, put water in the saucepan containing the Christmas pudding, made over a year before and left in a dark cupboard, gaining in fruitiness and alcoholic strength during another winter, spring, summer and autumn. She prepared the brussels sprouts, basted and put nuts and fruit into bowls. She slipped another spoonful of port into the Stilton, which stood, huge as a pramwheel, in the larder. She fed the dining-room fire with logs, and dodged Josephine who was delightedly trundling about with a doll propped in a small wheeled cart which had been piled with bricks. She smacked Mouser, whom she had left, with many tears, as a small ginger kitten and who was now a huge scarfaced creature, clever as the Devil and hungry as a dog.
As she put the ham he had dragged from the table back on its plate and began to knife off his toothmarks she heard the phone ring. She put the ham in the larder and went to answer.
It was Johnnie.
“We done it!” were his first words. “Done it fast. Home and dry!”
“I don’t want to talk to you, Johnnie,” she said. “I’m glad you’re OK but I don’t want to talk to you.” She felt so unhappy that her voice broke and, hearing it, he grew confident.
“Molly,” he said. “I’ve got £25,000. Look – I’m sorry I hit you – I know I shouldn’t’ve. It was the strain, gel. You must realize.”
“It’s not that, Johnnie,” she said desperately. “But I’ve got to get out. I can’t stand the life – there’s Josephine –”
There was a thump from the kitchen. Josephine cried.
“I told you,” he said. “I’m going straight. I’ve got something lined up. Please, please come home. I love you.”
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
“I love you,” he said desperately. “Molly – don’t go –”
“I love you, Johnnie,” she cried out and she could hear the despair in her own voice as she said it. She put the phone down and ran to the kitchen. The evil cat had opened the larder door which she had forgotten to catch. He and Josephine sat on either side of the ham. They were both gnawing it. Molly, her own voice ringing in her ears, saying, “I love you” as if she’d said, “Don’t kill me,” screamed “No!” at Josephine and the cat and frightened them both… Then she began to laugh, drove them away from the ham, restored it, put more water in the saucepan containing the pudding, basted the turkey, the beef, the parsnips, the potatoes, threw another log on the fire in the dining room, brought the red wine from the pantry and uncorked it, washed Josephine’s face and began to feel wonderful. Johnnie loved her. He was going to go straight, and by the time Mrs Gates came back she was singing.
“Well, then, Mary,” said Mrs Gates, coming in through the back door and taking off her hat. “You seem cheerful. Why don’t you go into the drawing room for a drink with the others while I take it from here?”
“I’ll stay by you, my dear,” said Molly Flanders. “But while we’re at it we’ll sneak a glass of master’s port – that’s what you have to do, isn’t it?”
“It’s been done,” admitted Mrs Gates.
“Just like feudal times round here,” remarked Cockney Moll, pouring two glasses of port and putting them on the kitchen table. “Happy Christmas, Mrs Gates,” she said, lifting her glass.
Mrs Gates raised her glass and with a curious look at her, said, “Happy Christmas, Mary, love.” Then gazing down to where the cat paced by her leg, purring and looking up at her with ferocious love, she said, “That cat’s been up to something, of that I’m sure.”
The lunch was sedate but greedy. The pudding caught fire beautifully and Josephine, in her high chair, was so impressed that they lit it again, for her, before serving it. After dinner the others – Tom, Sir Frederick and an elderly couple called Hardcastle and their son went into the drawing room, leaving Mary, who was helping to clear the table, behind with Mrs Gates and Isabel Allaun.
“Come and sit down for a moment, Mary. I’ve something to ask you,” said Isabel.
While Mrs Gates stood by the table, looking at both of them, Molly sat down and said, “What’s it all about, then?”
“We’re very fond of you here, Mary, as you know,” Isabel Allaun said, and although her face retained its normal cool expression, although the grey-blonde hair piled on her head still looked immaculately placed, the long hands on the white tablecloth did not move. She went on, “It has been a great pleasure having you here. Mrs Gates has loved it, too. I know that. And Josephine is so sweet – well, to cut a long story short, we wondered if you would like to stay on. This was your home for a long time and seeing you here again has made me realize how much a part of it you were. As you’ll see, this isn’t a kindness on my part. Sir Frederick is failing, that must be obvious to you. The burdens on me are greater. And none of us here are getting any younger. If you could stay and help Mrs Gates and me we would both be so delighted. We could offer a small wage. You would have Josephine with you – it might suit everyone.” And, for such a determined woman, she looked at Molly quite shyly.
Molly was dumbfounded. She said, “It’s very kind of you – very kind. It’s such a shock – I can’t make up my mind. Can I have a few days to think?”
“Of course,” said Isabel Allaun. “I didn’t expect you to make up your mind on the spot. You see – you could even get a part-time job. Mrs Gates would love to look after Josephine.” Mrs Gates nodded. “I’d love to,” she said. “In the end it would be like having you back when you were a child, Mary.”
Mary sniffed and said, “Well – I feel all over the place. I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything then,” said Isabel Allaun. “I must go into the drawing room. Come along when you’re ready. I’m pleased that at least you’re thinking about it.”
After she had gone, Mrs Gates, picking up a pile of dessert plates, said, “Nice thing for you, Mary. A fresh start. It can’t be easy in London with everybody knowing what happened to your husband.”
“Yes,” said Molly Flanders. “A nice thing.” But she knew already she was on her way back to Meakin Street as she followed Mrs Gates along the corridor to the kitchen. She had to decide between a quiet, hard-working life in the country and the challenges, adventures and variety of the city, between a life for herself and her daughter among people who loved her and her handsome gangster, about, he said, to go straight. And there was no choice. Two days later she had turned down Lady Allaun’s offer and was hoisting Josephine and herself aboard the train for London.
Three hours after that she and Johnnie were locked together on the sofa in Meakin Street while Josephine hammered on the door to get in, wailing, “Umm. Umm. Umm.” It was no use waiting for the child to go away. Johnnie had pulled the curtains together and seized her. Mary, laughing, had let him push her back on to the sofa and had torn at his clothes while he tore at hers. She had cried, “Johnnie. Johnnie. Johnnie,” as his hands touched her body, as he finally entered her. Afterwards he said, “I’m back, Mary. I’m not going away any more.” And she said, “I know you’re not.” For a moment she looked into his eyes, into his head. She said, “Oh, Johnnie. I’m happy now. I feel so bad when you’re gone.” Then she got off the couch and let in the little girl.
“Can’t let the kid see this sort of thing too often,” remarked Johnnie, pulling on his trousers.
Molly said, “I love you.”
That night, sitting in the crowded club while Jimmy, Allan and Johnnie flashed their fivers about – the money, mostly from shops and market stalls, had been in used notes – Molly, tiddley by now, with a strap from her dress falling down over her shoulders, laughed and joked with the rest, even Arnie Rose, whom she usually ignored as much as possible, because she was so afraid of him. This time, in a dinner jacket and black tie, he was
making an appearance – something like that of a boss at the firm’s Christmas party, for obviously the Roses had funded the bank robbery. He and Johnnie were clapping each other on the back and swapping jokes and Mary joined in. As she sat there he put his hand on her bare shoulder and, peering obviously down the front of her dress, said, tightening his grip on her shoulder, “Oh, I like the feel of this. This is very nice, this is.” Molly thought he sounded as if he were sitting down to a couple of pork chops. Trembling internally at his touch she said, “Please don’t squeeze me till I’m yours, Mr Rose,” looking saucily up at him through the smoke and itching to shrug his hard, damp hand from her flesh. In a moment, she thought, she would flinch, too obviously, from the grip of the man described a few weeks earlier in The People as ‘London’s King of Crime’.
“Got to check the goods before buying in this world,” Arnie Rose said expansively, waving the big cigar he held round the room. A blob of ash fell on the table. “But judging by sight and feel – Molly – you’re a prime bit of stuff, you are.”
A silence fell around the table. Susie and Jimmy Carr glanced automatically towards the bar, where Johnnie was buying drinks. He pushed through the crowd, saw Arnie’s hand on Molly’s shoulder and remarked, setting three glasses down, “Hullo, Arnie. I hope you’re not trying to sign her up for business. I’ve got exclusive rights.”
Arnie looked at him mildly and told him, “As if I’d dream of it, Johnnie. A beautiful girl like this – so much in love with you. But if it wasn’t for you I’d be courting her with flowers, and that, my boy, is a fact.”
Johnnie ignored the challenge, and the threat. He said, “Take your hand off her shoulder, Arnie, and guess what’s coming your way.” And he took an empty glass from Allan, who came up with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a fistful of glasses in the other.
Arnie Rose took his hand from Molly’s shoulder and accepted the glass, which Allan filled. “And now,” he said to Johnnie, “I suggest we go upstairs and talk about our little bit of business.”
“Delighted,” said Johnnie. They weaved through the crush and went out.
Susie leaned over the table and said, “What’s it all about?”
“Don’t know,” Molly said. She felt depressed. If Johnnie was going straight why was he talking business again with Arnie Rose?
“You’re lucky with Johnnie,” the girl said wistfully. “He thinks the sun shines out of your eyes – you can tell, the way he looks at you. Blimey, though,” she added in a lower voice, “it looks like Arnie’s interested – he’s a devil, you know, and he don’t give up easy.” By now she was sitting next to Molly, talking into her ear.
“My mum used to know him as a kid,” Molly remarked.
“Don’t say nothing about it,” Susie said. “He can’t stand anybody saying things about him unless he told them first. Here,” she said, taking off a long glove, “see this – solid gold. Look at them stones – real rubies. A thousand quid if it’s a penny, this.”
She took it off and handed it to Molly. Molly envied her. She wished Johnnie would give her something like that. But she thought that Susie was a bit like her sister Shirley, who was now twelve. She also showed off her new trinkets – although Shirley’s all came from Woolworth’s – wanting you to ask who had given them to her, and acted, like Susie, all frightened about Arnie Rose, shivering and shuddering as if he was a ghost. What was Arnie Rose anyway, she asked herself? Nothing but a great big bully, always one jump ahead of the law and always looking over his shoulder in case a policeman came round the corner. But she exclaimed over the bracelet and listened to Susie’s tale of how she had come by it.
Susie, glancing to the bar said, “Don’t look now, but who’s looking daggers? She still can’t get over the loss of her Johnnie – silly cow.” It was true. The dark girl, Jeanne, over by the bar was staring at Molly. As Molly gazed she dropped her eyes. Molly stared round the club. The women, glamorously dressed, heavily jewelled and made up, were all glancing at each other. Before she could work out what was going on, Arnie Rose and Johnnie were back, smiling into each other’s faces, both smoking big cigars and grasping arms when they talked to each other. This public display of bonhomie made Molly even more uneasy. How could Johnnie go straight with Arnie involved? Arnie reminded her of Charlie Markham, suddenly – the same broad smiles and still making her life a misery day after day with his punchings and pinchings and habit of leaping out at her unexpectedly. And she knew neither she nor Johnnie would be safe if Arnold Rose became unhappy with them. Temporarily she even disliked Johnnie for so enjoying Arnie’s approval. But now Arnie was saying, “And I’m sure neither of you ladies will refuse another glass of fizz?” He waved at the barman, who came towards them. “And another,” said Johnnie, waving two five pound notes about.
So the corks went on popping, champagne bubbled over the edge of the glasses, the girls giggled and the men guffawed and the girls dabbed the corks from the champagne bottles behind their ears, scenting themselves with the drink. After that a party wanted to go on somewhere else but Molly persuaded Johnnie to take her home.
“He’s rotten,” she told him that night in bed.
“Oh – he’s a villain through and through,” Johnnie said complacently, sprawled across the bed with a cigarette in his hand. “There’s no doubt about it. He’s a real villain.” He was flattered by the attention Arnie Rose had paid him and the backslapping, the cigars.
“I said he was rotten,” said Molly. “He’s evil, Johnnie. Bloody evil. You’d better remember that if you’re going to get mixed up with him.”
“I know all that,” said Johnnie. “But he’s made me a very fair offer and I’m thinking it over. We sorted out a few details tonight.”
“What offer?” said Molly. “Smashed kneecaps?”
“Now then, lovely,” he said, kissing her. “None of your business, is it? Your business is something else. I can deal with Arnie – you got to deal with me, see. Here – aren’t you lovely? Say, ‘I’m lovely.’”
“You’re lovely,” said Molly, as his warm weight came down on her.
But as it happened the deal between the Rose brothers and Johnnie became her business. She was part of the deal. Johnnie at first did not agree, but when it looked as if Arnie would back out he had to let Molly work there. And so it was that when Frames, the gambling club, opened for the first time and soft-faced debutantes, hiding schoolgirl faces under the heavy paint and hauteur of top models, and their almost-as-young escorts, and men with the small mouths and distanced looks of gamblers, and minor aristocrats, film stars and starlets and MPs, company directors, jockeys, owners and crooks, even a princess, mingled in the high rooms on the opening night, drinking free champagne and having their pictures taken, it was Molly, in cream satin, with her hair on top of her head, who acted as hostess. She concealed her high good humour and satisfaction for the occasion and tried to speak and act like a younger version of Isabel Allaun. Even the Roses were impressed. “I don’t believe it, Molly,” exclaimed Norman through his cigar. “Arnie told me you were good, had a bit of class, as you might put it but – you look like the real thing. What do you say, Simon? Like your own sister, ain’t she?”
Simon Tate, who had been at Oxford and had been taken on as manager, remarked gallantly, “I haven’t a sister, but if I had, I’m sure Molly would make her look as if she ran a whelk stall down Petticoat Lane.”
“Think I’m overdoing it, then?” Molly asked him.
“Not a scrap,” he told her. “You’re fine. The boyfriend’s a bit flashy, though. I’ll have a word with him.”
Molly flushed at hearing Johnnie criticized. “I’m here to see to these things,” he told her. The Roses, no fools, had hired him to advise on who was good for what money and do what the Roses described as keeping up the tone – keeping out the riff-raff.
“I don’t want to come in here one night and find anybody like me on the premises,” Norman Rose had told him genially. “If I do, I’ll sack y
ou.”
Simon was energetic. The night after the opening he was at the club at nine, saying to Molly, “You must get rid of the woman you’ve got running the ladies’ room as Soon as she comes in. Get somebody else – she’s got to be something like a trained nurse or a retired housekeeper. She has to look extremely respectable and be quite unshockable. She must be able to produce anything from an aspirin to French scent, not excluding a calming brandy or gin. She must have a list of telephone numbers including doctors, solicitors and the House of Lords. We must look after the ladies or the place will turn into a snooker hall.”
“How am I supposed to find her?” moaned Molly. “And it’s not my job.”
“You’d better ring some smart employment agencies,” he told her. “And if you think your job at this club is going to begin and end with standing about in a low-cut dress doing an impression of the Honourable Miss Tinyfeet then think again. You’re the only person here, other than me, who can cope. What are they paying you?”
“Fifteen pounds a week,” muttered Molly.
“Get cracking, then,” he advised, “and then ask them for twenty when you get established as Madame.”
This advice did not seem real to Molly, any more than anything else at Frames seemed real. Night after night the clients came into Frames, to see and be seen or to gamble. The hard core of gamblers slightly bewildered her.
“It’s the excitement that gets them,” Arnie Rose said to her one night as they stood at the small, hidden window in the office upstairs, gazing down at the tables. A young merchant banker stood watching the dice roll across the green baize. His face was quite expressionless, though very pale. The dice halted. He spoke to the croupier and walked away.
“That’s him done for,” remarked Arnie. “We’ve got markers off him for a quarter of everything his dad owns. It’s the excitement, see. People’ll do anything to get it. Drink, drugs, dirty women, trying to break land-sea records, exploring up the Amazon. You show me a bored man and I’ll show you a mark, a punter, a sucker.”
All The Days of My Life Page 23
