All The Days of My Life

by Hilary Bailey

  “He felt everybody had let him down,” Molly said sadly. “Even me. I didn’t stand up for him in court. I was in hospital. I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Doubt if you could have done anything, Moll,” Arnie said. “This whole business wasn’t normal. Cases like this, police evidence is everything – who the coppers saw going in and out of a certain address and how often – who gave what to who on a corner – that’s the form. Practically all they had here was Wendy and Carol trying to remember if one of them lent Steve his rent or he lent it to them. It was ridiculous – a travesty. Somebody somewhere wanted Steven Greene done, so they did him. You or I or the Archangel Gabriel couldn’t have saved him.”

  “Didn’t they ask you anything?” Molly said.

  “No – that’s the other thing. First thing you do with a case like that is ask the landlord what he thinks is going on. Landlord here’s a friend of mine – you know – but they never come near him. Not that it would have been nice if they had, but the fact is, nobody asked him to dance. Not a whisper. Same with you – no papers, no subpoena, no nothing. Because” – he paused – “they didn’t want to know what we had to say. We knew he hadn’t done it, that’s why. Or, if he had, not a lot of it, so to speak. See what I’m getting at, Molly darling. If you’d known about it and you hadn’t been in hospital gravely ill, you’d have had a hell of a job getting anyone to listen to you. They had to smear him, that’s my opinion. He had to be shown up a real swine, living off women. Because why? Because then, whatever he said, nobody would be listening. Take the word of a convicted ponce? Good heavens, my dear,” mimicked Arnie, “who could believe a man like that?”

  Only part of Molly could believe all this. The picture of the world it presented was too harsh. She said, “I don’t know, Arnie –”

  “Take my word for it, Moll,” he said. “That’s the way it was. He knew too much about the bishop’s knickers. And not just that – I think there was more.”

  “Mm?” Molly said.

  “Those geezers from the Special Branch have been like flies around this club,” Arnie said. “We even had a burglary. A burglary!” He snorted. “I ask you, is it likely? Who’s going to come round and burgle the Rose brothers? No normal villain would come near this place. He’d know what would happen to him if he did. So I’m supposed to think, when they tell me the flat upstairs has been turned over, ‘Oh dear, oh dear. A naughty burglar has gone in my upstairs flat and tried to steal something.’ I’m supposed to get on the phone to my insurance company – anyway, they made a dog’s breakfast of the place, trying to make it look like a robbery, but I know the trademark of those boys like I know your pretty face, Moll. Greene knew more than the colour of the Lord Chancellor’s knickers. He’d been dabbling in a little bit of espionage, stands to reason. He got a few contacts with people in the government – then there was that Russian diplomat who was knocking off Wendy Valentine. So one side or the other gets in touch with him – and that’s why the flatfoots are nosing round the premises. Course they’re hopeless. I’d rather send my old granny out to do a robbery. Greene never had anything, mind you – he wasn’t the sort.” Molly still said nothing. Arnie’s voice tailed off and he said, “Well, Moll. A rotten business. We’ll all miss him.”

  Molly sniffed. She said, “That’s right, Arnie. Thanks for telling me, Arnie.”

  She spent a bad night, imagining the feelings Greene must have experienced before taking his life in a prison cell. She saw the rope – but would it have been his tie? – round his neck, the swollen eyes bulging, his suffused face. These visions were endless. She got up and swallowed a glass of whisky, which only made it worse. Now, the horror of Jim’s death confused itself with that of Steven Greene. She was quite alone in the flat. There was no one she could turn to and as the night went on she thought she might go mad. The horror of her imaginings was bad enough. What made it all worse was the guilt. If only she had been told about the trial. If only she could have appeared to defend Steven. If only she had been sensible enough to see his solicitor in person and insist on giving evidence, instead of believing that the police would call her when she was needed. Perhaps, she thought, she had been called to give evidence, but the letter was lost. At two-thirty in the morning she was searching the flat for a letter which might have been mislaid or put away by Johnnie when he came to collect his clothes. And at six-thirty, unable to bear the thought of another night alone in the empty flat, she packed her clothes and took a taxi to Meakin Street. Never mind the state of the house, she thought, she would collect Josephine and move in immediately. For good. But this was not what happened.

  It comes back to me very vividly, almost like a scene from a well-remembered film – the day of Steven Greene’s funeral. It was, in fact, rather like that – the leafless trees all round the cemetery, the tombstones, white marble or black slabs, the grey sky and the sombre clothing of the mourners were all reminiscent of a scene from a spy film. The fact that I was keeping my distance from the mourners – virtually skulking about at the back – only added, for me, to that impression. Needless to say, I had not wanted to come. My father had not even suggested it. But the newspaper publicity around the affair and the fact that we both knew that Molly was involved, meant that one of us ought really to attend. My father did not want to ask me. I knew that if I did not go he would. I decided that rather than allow an elderly man to stand about in a graveyard in mid-winter I had better volunteer. He had covered me with a story that I was from the Home Office. Nevertheless it was hardly in my interest to press forward and join the other mourners. To begin with, my story was untrue and, if it had been, it is not likely that I would have been a comforting or a popular figure at the funeral of a man who had hanged himself in custody. It was a gloomy day, in a gloomy place, and I was far from happy about being there.

  Greene’s poor father, who actually was a clergyman – and that, I suppose, was how Greene out of perversity came by his peculiar, Crowleyesque philosophy – had not been able to face burying his son in his parish in Dorset. Indeed, the church authorities might not have permitted the church burial of a notorious suicide. Nevertheless, he bravely conducted the service at the graveside, in the sort of biting wind which leads the mourners on such occasions to remove their guilt at still being alive by saying that after standing about in such weather they’ll probably get ill themselves and be back in a fortnight to bury each other. Not that there was very much of that kind of mournful jocularity on this occasion. Indeed, the shockingly few mourners were heavily outnumbered by photographers and reporters, which was another reason for my skulking at the back, among the tombstones. I had no wish to appear on the front page of a newspaper. Among the few genuine attenders of the funeral I saw Simon Tate and some girls I did not recognize. One of them called Carol, I believe, had come unsuitably dressed in a tight, black suit, black stockings and high heeled shoes. She also wore a little black hat with a veil. It was not her fault, I’m sure, poor girl, that she had come dressed like the classic French widow accused of poisoning her husband. She certainly looked unhappy enough, in spite of her clothes. Wendy Valentine looked ill. She wore old shoes and an untidy fur coat. Her hair was ruffled and her face thin and pale. Martin Pellman, Greene’s defence counsel, was there and the Rose brothers. Meanwhile the Greene women – mother and sister – stood at the grave’s head, near Mr Greene, and well away from these others, people they did not know and whom they obviously suspected of being part of the London life which had led to Greene’s death.

  What impressed me most, in fact, was the arrival, rather late, of Lord Clover. By attending the funeral he must have known he was branding himself as a user of Greene’s dubious services. I had heard myself that he was part of the conspiracy to nobble the man and get him sent to jail – yet, at the last moment, when he saw how much further things had gone than the conspirators intended, he must have felt remorse and decided, however futilely, to appear at the funeral, publicly associating himself with the dead man, a
convicted pimp and, now, a suicide. He stood unflinchingly through the flashes of the cameras pointed in his direction. His photograph was in every British newspaper next day and in plenty of Continental ones too. It was a gesture which put a stop to his further political advancement, but it may have shamed many of his friends, who had not seen fit to come to the funeral of the man they had used. In fact, hiding away from the cameras as I was, I also felt slightly ashamed.

  Clover stood beside Molly whose head was bowed almost all the time. It was a depressing scene. The mourners round the graveside consisted of the dead man’s family, including a clergyman and a lawyer, the manager of a gambling house, some gangsters and some whores. It was like a highwayman’s execution – it was the Beggars’ Opera. The last character from that sort of scene is, I suppose, the landlord. And the man I did not recognize, standing opposite Molly and Clover at the graveside, was, of course, that – Ferenc Nedermann, in a thick black coat and a black silk scarf.

  I was standing too far off to hear the service but I certainly heard the earth falling on Greene’s coffin and the outbreak of sobs from the women when they heard that final sound. When that was over the group broke up uneasily. I saw the Rose brothers step forward together to shake the Reverend Mr Greene’s hand and offer a few, no doubt well chosen, words of consolation. I had every confidence in their good behaviour. Formalities like this are taken seriously by men like the Roses. They are accustomed to saying the right thing in circumstances which might make the rest of us feel tongue-tied – where the departed might, perhaps, have died in dubious circumstances or have led a life which will not stand much examination. I don’t suppose the Greene family, who were being assured how the Rose brothers had liked and respected their son, were aware that they were with the most feared criminals in London. I don’t suppose they were aware of anything, except that they were burying their son and brother and that cameras kept flashing in their direction. After that they were borne away by Martin Pellman. Clover, having spoken to Mr and Mrs Greene, also disappeared. The rest of the party, who, after all, knew each other well, went to a nearby pub. I should not have gone, since there was a danger I would be asked who I was, but by that time I was, frankly, in need of a drink. I sat in a corner while the mourners talked to each other, and the reporters, in another group, made forays towards them to try and make contact.

  They were refused every time since some had no desire to talk to the press and others had been signed up exclusively by one paper. Finally I saw Norman Rose say a few words to one of the newshounds. He went away and told the others. From then on Greene’s friends were not pestered. I watched them all but mostly I watched Molly Waterhouse. When I saw her talking to Ferenc Nedermann I had no idea that it was her and then, in the pub after Greene’s funeral, when she struck her deal with him. If I’d known what the beautiful and still comparatively unhardened girl was doing I think I would have set light to the public house to prevent it. On the other hand, if she had not gone with him I doubt if she would have been the woman she is today.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Molly said, half-conscious of an argument further down the bar between the landlord and a photographer who wanted to take pictures of the mourners. She had heard from Johnnie months before, that Nedermann was known never to go after women, although he visited a prostitute in a flat in Gerrard Street on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. She was wondering why he had again asked her to move in with him, since he had not wanted to live with a woman for many years. She was even more baffled because he gave her no impression that he desired her. She was stunned, too. Everything seems unreal after the burial of the dead. Nedermann was looking at her intently. “I’m making you the offer,” he said in a low, but firm voice. “You move in and I’ll look after you. You and the child.”

  “Josie?” Molly asked.

  “Who else?” he said. “The child. I want the child.”

  Molly, in search of something which might be real, since the conversation with Nedermann, coming so soon after the burial, seemed like a dream, searched the length of the bar for some reality. She scanned the reporters, the group at the bar, where the laughter kept rising, and then hushing itself when the party thought of why they were together. She even stared, sightlessly, at the tall, thin young man in the corner, with his cowslick of fairish hair falling over his eyes. He looked at her, then looked away, as if he did not want to meet her gaze. Still confused, Molly held out her glass to Nedermann, who leaned over the bar and tried to attract the barman’s attention. While he was occupied in this way she tried to work out why Nedermann made such a point of asking that Josephine should live with them. Had he told her something about his having a wife and child? That something had happened to them? With her eyes on his broad back she thought, using a phrase borrowed from Steven Greene, “He’s one of the walking wounded.”

  She took the drink from Nedermann and swigged from the glass. She didn’t want to think about moving in with him now, not after a funeral. But perhaps if she did not decide quickly he would withdraw his offer. And it was worth considering. On one side of the argument lay Meakin Street, the part-time job, the neighbours enjoying the fact that she had come down in the world. There lay the work, the straightened circumstances, the limitations to life for herself and Josephine. On the other hand, life with Nedermann meant security for herself and the child. Josephine would have a better life. And this time, she vowed, she would save money and, when she had served it, hang on to it. There would be no more Bridges, or his like, no more rash spending. But the problem was that she did not love Nedermann. In some ways she felt she did not even like him. She certainly did not like the way he made his living. If she shared his money she would share the way in which he got it. Yet she was sorry for him. She could feel his desperation – he would not lightly take up with another woman and walk out leaving her ill and helpless.

  It may have been this last idea, for Johnnie Bridges had damaged her badly, worse than she knew – which led her to say, still in a voice lacking her usual decision, “Yes, I’ll come.” Nedermann leaned forward and kissed her on the brow.

  Further up the bar the Roses, the girls, even Simon Tate, were getting drunk. They were recalling now, some of Greene’s most famous exploits. Wendy was saying, “So he leans forward and picks them off the floor and says, ‘I believe these are yours, my Lord Bishop.’” They all roared with laughter. “Oh, Gawd,” spluttered Arnie Rose. “The Bishop’s undies – oh, he was a lad, old Steve.”

  “When?” Molly asked.

  “– down at Bray when he caught me floating in the pool in my birthday suit, playing doctors and nurses with that big, black African,” came the voice of a girl. “ And he says–”

  “Today, if you like,” Nedermann said.

  “– now you’ve proved you haven’t got any racial prejudice how about something for the folks back home.”

  Mary said, under the laughter, “All right.” Glancing at the others she said, in a low voice, “You have to remember he was kind to me. He talked to me. He gave me books to read. He wasn’t just a sex machine, like they’re making out. He did drawings. He knew about art. They’re carrying on about him as if what they made him out to be in court was true. They’ll forget what he was really like soon. He’ll be just a label stuck on a lot of dirty stories.”

  “Come on,” Nedermann said. “We’ll go for the child.”

  Some might say – some did – why go off like that, with a man you didn’t love? It must’ve been money. Though I’ve seen a lot of women do a lot of things like that for money, and a few men, too. Sometimes they can stick a coat of whitewash over it – a wedding, or an attack of true love covers the situation nicely. But there’s often money at the back of it though the people involved don’t say so, sometimes don’t even admit it to themselves. When I told Josephine about it, when she was older she said practically no working-class girl of my times had the idea she could look after herself. No wonder, she said, what with the faulty contraception and rotten
jobs – I’d lost my only chance when I never bothered with my education. Not like Shirley. Of course the other difference between Shirley and me is that I was the good-looker. Shirley was a pretty girl but I couldn’t sit down on a bus without one of the men starting to get into conversation, asking me out or whatever. It wasn’t too easy to tread the boring straight and narrow when fellows kept on offering tempting alternatives. Like Nedermann. He offered me a good life, protection for me and the child – and love. Love – it was more like devotion. I could tell it though I didn’t really know the reasons for it. That came out later. But Josephine says she’s never forgotten that day when she watched her dolls’ pram, all piled high with her toys, being hoisted into a Rolls Royce by a man in a peaked cap. She was only five and I had to stand beside her telling her over and over again that we were going in the car, too. She had this suspicion the car might start up suddenly and drive away with the pram and all her toys. She was in her best red velvet dress and patent leather shoes. She wouldn’t put her coat on because it hid her dress. She had all these brown curls flying about and her great big brown eyes were open wide with all the excitement. Ivy was standing there looking doubtful and holding Josephine’s coat. Ferenc had impressed her. I knew that. It was because he was older, and looked respectable and, probably, she could sense that he would love Josephine. I can still remember how she took a flying leap into the car that day and began to wave out of the window like the Queen. Ivy was stuck between approving and disapproving, and crying a bit now Josephine was really going. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She handed Josie’s little case in and said, “Come back soon, Josie.” Josie didn’t give a flicker of emotion. She just said, “I’m going to live in a big house. I’ll have flounces round my dressing-table.” She was obsessed with frills and flounces at the time, Josephine. I was so embarrassed that she hadn’t said goodbye properly to Ivy that I hit her as soon as we moved off. I must have said something nasty to her, as well. I’ll never forget the look on Ferenc’s face when he saw Josephine start to sniffle. I might as well have hit him. That was what it was all about, of course.