by Carol Rivers
In the kitchen he took the loaf from the larder. Carving off four thick slices, he lay them on the oilcloth. There was butter under the china dish, but it was still rationed and if it was one thing his mum loved it was a good helping of her old cough and splutter. The jam though, not that she knew it, was well and truly off the back of a lorry and more where it had come from any day of the week.
The girl wolfed it down and swiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
'See what I mean?' Micky chuckled. 'They'd eat horse dung if you served it up hot.'
'And so would you,' Ronnie answered him shortly, 'if Mum didn't put food in your belly.'
'That's why I help 'em out,' Micky stated quickly. 'If it wasn't for me they'd be brown bread.'
Ronnie sneered. 'Yeah, I can believe that an' all.'
'No kidding, bruv. Nicking from the debris is what keeps 'em alive. If it wasn't for me giving them a good whack for what they find, they wouldn't be standing here today. As half dead as they look it's me what keeps them breathing. Their mum don't give a toss what happens to her kids and sure as hell the ugly bastard that belts 'em don't.'
Ronnie knew the only reason Micky had half of London's back street kids working for him was for his own gain. He worked them like stink, returning the poor sods a pittance. Ronnie had turned a blind eye so far but now he was thinking twice. As for the nutter who used two little kids for a punch bag…
'What is this bloke to them?' Ronnie asked heavily. 'He not family or nothing?'
Micky laughed as he stuffed his mouth with bread. 'He's Mary Doyle's pimp and that's a fact.'
Ronnie cut another slice and halved it. 'Here, put this away, you two.'
They were at it like vultures when someone knocked on the front door. 'Keep quiet,' Ronnie warned them all. 'Not a whisper.' He went to open it. A warden was standing there and his uniform was covered in dust.
'Yeah?' Ronnie asked irritably.
'Is this the home of Winifred Bryant?'
Ronnie nodded. 'She's out.'
'You'd better let me in, son.'
Ronnie put up his hand to stop him from entering. 'Why should I do that?'
He looked into Ronnie's eyes. 'The Luftwaffe hit Poplar bad last night … and your mum …'
Ronnie stared into the warden's face. He must have got it wrong. Somewhere along the line, there was a mix-up.
'We dug this out, well, what was left of it.' He lifted an identity card and his mum's black purse with a metal clasp. Ronnie saw a stain, a dark red one smeared across the felt. Then he knew she was never coming home again.
Chapter 3
Nine days later
Ronnie pushed his hand under his open shirt collar and squeezed the tense muscles of his neck. Mum would have made him wear a tie, but he hadn't worn one since he was at school and never a suit. Removing his jacket he placed it carefully over the back of his chair as Sean and Micky walked in the room.
Mum would have approved, Ronnie thought as he studied his two brothers who were dressed in identical dark suits. They were wearing what her idea of real class looked like. But now she was gone and her sons being done up like a dog's dinner for the funeral was a sting in the tail if ever there was one. For years she had meticulously ironed their shirts and pressed their trousers, nagging them to smarten themselves up. Now she wasn't here to see the result of her efforts.
'How long is this going to take?' Micky peeled off his jacket. 'I've got things to do.'
'Such as?'
'Dunno, just stuff.'
Ronnie narrowed his eyes, the sense of foreboding that had beset him after Mum's death, growing inside him. 'Whatever it is Micky, forget it. There's family business to be taken care of this afternoon. Now shut up and sit down.' Ronnie nodded to the seat on his right. He had swallowed his irritation all week as Micky's attitude had gone from bad to worse. He accepted his brother was grieving, but he was well out of order today and Ronnie's patience was growing thin.
Micky dragged out a chair and slumped down on it. Sean was already seated; his elbows resting on the big oval dining table polished each day by their Mum for as long as Ronnie could remember. A pang of sadness went through him as he met Sean's red-rimmed eyes. He had wept openly, unafraid to show his sorrow. Of the three of them, Sean had been their mother's favourite and it wasn't surprising to Ronnie that he'd taken her loss as badly as he had Dad's.
When he'd returned home that day after identifying his mother and aunt in the makeshift mortuary, he'd gazed into his brothers' faces, unable to speak. He had felt as if all the life had drained out of him from that moment. Mum and Auntie Gwen had looked as if they were asleep, their faces unmarked by the hand of death.
'You're certain it's them?' the warden had pressed as he'd identified the two corpses lying side by side.
Of course he was certain. The dead women were his family, the only family that he, Micky and Sean had.
'We found her bag straight away,' the man had told him gently. 'I know it's no consolation, but she wouldn't have known a thing.'
No, it's no consolation at all, he had thought bitterly as he stared at the marble white face of his mother that had, twenty four hours ago, been full of life and energy. They loved their father, but all three of them worshipped their mother. Perhaps she had been asleep when it happened? Ronnie hoped to God that it was quick.
He could still hear the rustle of the utility tarpaulins as they were replaced over the two still forms. See in his mind's eye the uniformed man who had taken his arm, intending to lead him away. Felt the frustration in his gut as he'd tried to decide whether it was all some sick joke.
All he could think of then was the fact he wouldn't be looking into Mum's eyes again, their expression alert to whatever catastrophe had befallen her sons in her absence. She wouldn't be conjuring up a fried breakfast. Or chewing them off about they way they refused to get up in the mornings. Life as they had once known it had now come to an end.
Ronnie looked hard at his brothers. 'Sean, I know there's no way we can bring back Mum. But if she was here she would tell us to pull ourselves together and sort ourselves out. So that's what we've got to do, right?'
Sean shrugged helplessly. 'Why did it have to happen to her, Ron? I just don't understand.'
'There's no answer to that question, Seany. I wish I could give you one.'
'She never hurt no one. She'd give the coat off her back to anyone who asked. It was us that's done all the nicking. Why didn't that bomb fall on us?'
'I wish it had,' Ronnie muttered darkly. 'But what's done is done and we're still alive and kicking.'
'But that's just it, Ron, I don't feel right about what we did – you know – just before she went. It's as if it was us who made the bomb fall on her.'
Ronnie jerked his head round. 'That's rubbish Sean, and you know it. Get it out of your head. We loved her, treasured her. And what we did was all for her, to give her a comfortable life as Dad would have wanted.'
Sean swept the tears from his cheeks with a grubby hand. 'I don't know anything any more, only that Mum turned a blind eye to what we did and we took full advantage. She didn't have a clue as to what was happening half the time. If we'd told her we knocked off a load of stuff and wanted to bury it in the Anderson she would have given us all a slap for even thinking it.'
Ronnie's face tightened. 'Point taken, Sean, but the fact is what the eye don't see, the heart don't grieve over. After Dad died it was too late to change what he'd started and I for one wouldn't have wanted to, anyway. The old man didn't spend his life teaching us the tricks of the trade for nothing. We was Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Give anyone a helping hand if they asked and bugger the sheriff. He kept telling us them stories over and over again. They came out of him like verbal diarrhoea and we believed every word. Still do.'
Sean blinked his long lashes. 'I know Ron. But the country's at war and the punters we deal with are all in this lark for a profit, not to give to the poor and needy.'
Ronnie couldn't a
rgue with that. But his priority was family. If he didn't hold them together now, they'd fall apart. 'Look if it makes you feel any better, I'll agree that expanding the business into black market after Dad died was my decision, and I take full responsibility. I'm not saying I was right to do so, mind. That is a matter of opinion and you are entitled to yours. But I know in my heart it was the road Dad would have gone down. In my book, there was no doubt whatsoever as to continuing the business.' He paused as for a second saw his mother gazing back at him in the form of Sean's honest blue gaze. God only knew how the old man had worked the flankers he'd done and kept the old girl in such blissful ignorance. But he had and Ronnie commended him for it. Now it was history repeating itself and with Mum gone, it was Sean who had taken up her mantle. But Sean was the new generation of Bryants and as such, had either to support the business or get out of it completely.
'Seany, let me put you straight on one thing. Mum never died because of what we did. It was nothing to do with us, so get that through your Uncle Ned. She died because a maniac in another country decided to start a war. And that's a fact you're going to have to accept.'
There was silence in the room. Ronnie glanced at Micky who was sporting a face as long as a fiddle. 'Right, Micky, now it's your turn.' He braced his shoulders back and added firmly, 'I'm not sitting here all day looking at your moody gobs, so speak your mind or forever hold your peace.'
Micky kicked the table leg idly. 'Since you're asking, Ron, what I don't fancy is Old Bill sniffing round. I've been shitting bricks lately, every time the door goes. Stands to reason they know Mum's gone and she won't be here to tell them to sling their hook. So where does that leave us, I ask? And the answer is, we're sitting here like three orphaned ducks.'
'So what is the alternative?'
'I reckon we get shot of this last little bundle. Take a dip on our profits if we have to, but just get clear of it.'
Ronnie nodded slowly. 'Fair point. Any suggestions what we do with it?'
'It's too hot for the markets and it would take too long to flog it round the pubs. What about shoving it Luffman's way? He'll rook us something chronic, but we'll have to swallow on that.'
Ronnie begrudged giving Goldy Luffman the contents of his nose, let alone a generous deal, as he was the meanest sod this side of the river. However, Goldy took anything and everything and asked no questions. 'All right. Suits us this time, but from here on in we'll find somewhere legit to stash our Georgie Woods.' He turned slowly to Sean. 'So, are you up for a clean sweep, Seany?'
'What choice have I got?' Sean replied moodily.
'You've always got a choice in life.' Ronnie stared hard at his kid brother who up until this moment had always been just that, a kid. But with Mum gone he was going to have to step into the real world. 'You don't have to come with us on this one, bruv. Me and Micky will do the business. We'll sort out the Anderson and see Goldy.'
'You what?' Micky objected, for the first time sitting up and paying attention.
'I said Seany can sit this one out.'
'But it took all three of us to move it,' Micky protested. 'A whole lorry load it was, buried six-foot down under a bloody shelter. We was at it like navvies and only finished just before the All Clear went.'
'We'll manage.' Ronnie's tone was final. 'Sean's staying put.'
'So what if I decide to sit on me arse all night, too?' Micky sulked.
Ronnie sighed heavily. There was something in both his brothers' attitudes that worried him. Sean was frightened of his own shadow and Micky was in love with himself. They both needed to realize they had to give a lot and take a little between themselves. They were family. And if family couldn't hack it, who could?
Micky continued to stare at him resentfully. There were rings round his blue eyes and a hollow look to his face. With his curly brown hair he was like their Dad, a charmer. Sean had the same intense blue gaze but with his light brown hair and soft, smooth features he was their mother all over. Now Ronnie looked at his two brothers and knew they would never be kids again, at liberty to fight amongst themselves and be stopped by a cuff round the ear. Now there could only be one leader. And as the oldest, he was it.
'Right then,' Ronnie said decisively. 'I'll dig out the van and bring it round as soon as the first raid starts. There'll be no lights on anywhere and plenty of noise to distract any nosy parkers. I'll reverse up to the back wall and Sean, you can help us load the stuff, but then you'll come back in here and lie low. Me and Micky will drive over to Goldy's and be back before first light.'
'It'll be a bloody miracle if we are,' Micky grunted.
'We did it before. We can do it again.'
'That is if Jerry don't drop one on our heads.'
Ronnie smiled. 'He'll have to catch us first.'
Ronnie expected further protest and was prepared for it. But Sean hung his head, trying to disguise his wet cheeks and Micky was busy still kicking the table leg. He had always had a laugh at anything remotely serious. After Mum, he didn't know how to act.
'And just to refresh our memories,' Ronnie continued, his gaze not leaving his brothers' faces. 'We'll keep this gaff ship shape, then. I don't want to find so much as a fag end under your beds – or anything else come to that. In other words, if the law was to shove its nose inside this house, all they'd find is a layer of dust and even that would be sweet smelling. Are you hearing me, you two?'
'Yeah, yeah.' Micky rolled his eyes.
Sean nodded in silence.
'And no outside jobs,' Ronnie added firmly. 'No creeping, no spotting, no fitting. Not even a touch at the market. No nicking wallets, bags or goods. Nothing goes down unless I say so. The Bryants think, act, even shit as one.'
Micky turned to face him and Ronnie was relieved to see a glimmer of humour return to his brother's eyes.
'What about them kids outside?' Sean asked suddenly. 'They've been kipping right on top of the stock.'
Ronnie had almost forgotten he'd allowed them to sleep in the shelter. After Mum's death he hadn't had the heart to send them back to Bow Street.
'They'll have to go,' Ronnie nodded.
'Lambs to the slaughter, I reckon,' Micky murmured, a glint in his eye.
'But they're not our problem,' Sean said anxiously. 'Are they?'
Micky shrugged. 'I reckon sending them back to Bow Street is like feeding mice to a cat. I'd like to see how handy the bastard is with someone his own size.'
It wasn't often Micky made sense, Ronnie thought, but this time he was in full agreement. He felt a grudging admiration towards Micky. More than that, he knew his brother was no coward and had taken his punishment on the streets as well as dolling it out. Inside him there was a vicious streak that was pure hate for authority of any kind. Ronnie knew that if this trait could be harnessed for the good of the family, they would have a valuable asset in Micky.
'You want to sort it out?' Ronnie asked.
Micky's dark eyes lit up. 'Now you're talking, bruv.'
But Sean was shaking his head. 'I don't like it. Those kids are bad news.'
Ronnie was under no illusions as far as Sean went. He was never cut out for the physical. Mum had spoiled him rotten, and him and Micky had understood why. Sean was the total opposite to Micky who, given the chance, would happily take a swing at a bull with a match up its arse.
'We'll start as we mean to go on,' Ronnie said without hesitation. 'Ask yourself this question, Sean. What would Dad have done if we had a sister and some lairy sod lifted a hand against her?' His face was set hard, its handsome proportions chiselled out in the broad daylight. 'This is our patch and we need the respect.' He paused, assessing his brothers' reactions. When no argument was forthcoming he continued. 'Now, are we all done?'
Ronnie looked at them again. Then he stood up and felt the smooth material of his trousers fall over his long legs. He liked that feeling. He liked the fact that he now had his brothers' undivided attention and made a vow to keep it that way.
Before leaving the room
he picked up the newspaper. The polish of the table sparkled. He could remember his mum polishing it and the joy she took in doing so. It was a big, solid table, like the family he intended to cultivate. This was the first meeting he had called, but it wouldn't be the last. There would be many more to come.
Now he instructed Sean to change his clothes and put on his working clobber. Ronnie had already convinced himself that the action he was about to take to remedy a bad situation, would achieve a result that his Dad, if not his Mum, would sanction.
Chapter 4
Jack Router was in dire need of a drink. He was also chastened by the nights he had spent squeezed in those bloody shelters with the stink of every Tom, Dick and Harry up his nose. The confinement had made him appreciate Bow Street even if it was little more than a ruin. At least there was only him and Mary and her two brats. Mind, he'd rather cut his tongue out than admit as much to Mary Doyle. He hoped by now she had learned her lesson. No woman gave him the elbow, especially a brass. And what would the bitch do without his protection, for pity's sake? With her spiteful tongue it was on the cards to fall foul of some bolshie punter refusing to cough up the price of a shag. Jack smiled to himself. She needed muscle at her side and he was her man. If she was still alive and kicking after nine days fending for herself, she would welcome him back on her knees.
Damn the Luftwaffe, though! With landlords buggering off the instant the siren went it was hard to find a good drink these days. Not that he'd even set foot inside a pub today.
Jack marched on, his thirst increasing. He first noticed the woman trailing him as he walked up to West India docks. She was on the game, no doubt. Sizing him up at a distance, he guessed. Calculating his worth and wondering how much he kept in his pocket.
At first he ignored her. With that cow Rita Moult on the lookout, he had to be careful. He wasn't about to push his luck. Not in broad daylight anyway and not on the island. But a mile or two more and they'd be into Poplar.
