by Carol Rivers
'Fancy a drink, love?' A waft of cheap perfume washed over him as he turned into Poplar High Street.
'Clear off.' His tone was scathing as he glanced furtively over his shoulder.
'Come on, ducks. You look like you need cheering up.'
'I said clear off.'
She grabbed his arm. 'That's not a nice way to speak to a lady.'
'Show me the lady and I'm the pope.'
She smiled brazenly. 'You're a laugh a minute, you are, sonny boy.' Her fingers slid over him and her touch aroused him. Well, why shouldn't it, he thought lustily? He was only human after all. And wasn't a man entitled to look elsewhere if his woman spurned him? He was sick to death of Mary's nagging. He didn't know where her two bastards were and didn't care. Good riddance to bad rubbish if you asked him. If she blamed him for their disappearance, so be it. He'd find another bed easy enough.
'Come on, you could do with a quick one, I'll bet.' She linked her arm through his. 'Where you off to then?'
Good question. Where exactly was he going to drown his sorrows? With Mary working the Rose, he'd lost his watering hole.
'I'm on me way to Limehouse.' He didn't care for the walk, but it was the safest option. No one knew him round there.
Her thin eyebrows raised. 'Despite the fact me feet are killing me, I know a cosy spot up the Commercial Road. Nice friendly landlord an' all.'
'Yeah, I'll bet you do.'
She lowered the neckline of her blouse with dirty fingers. 'What's it worth then, love? A drink or two surely? Come on, let's give ourselves a real laugh, shall we?'
Jack soon forgot about his worries as they walked on. He could feel the angle of her hip touching him as he inhaled her scent. A stink that would normally have him gagging. But now it was a promise, a reminder of the man he was, and the desires he'd had to curb for too long. By seven o'clock they were installed on the back benches of the Fur and Feathers listening to the thud of the bombs in the distance. By eight they'd moved down the road to the George where the publican was game enough to still serve ale and curse the Luftwaffe at the same time. By ten, in the middle of a lull, they were staggering into the dim and musty light of some godforsaken alley, his pocket empty.
Blearily he looked for a spot, somewhere dark and sheltered. Seeing a recess in the wall where rubbish spread across their path, he told himself he wouldn't get much better.
'Come on, get your drawers down,' he growled as he pushed her against the stone.
'Not here, it's too bloody dangerous.' She knew what was expected of her, but had the gall to push him away. He wasn't going to cough up a penny owing to the amount of booze she had thrown down her gob in the last two hours.
He squinted at the face before him, grotesque in the blackout, all caked make-up and smudged lipstick. Her cheap perfume now filled him with disgust. She saw his expression and laughed in his face.
He gripped her jaw hard. 'Spread your legs woman, or I'll do it for you.'
'Not out here,' she refused stubbornly. 'Them bombers'll be back soon.'
He loosened his buttons. 'Sod the bombers, you cow. Now hold still and damn the bloody raid.' He pulled up her skirt and forced himself between her legs. He entered her roughly and she stilled at once, as he knew she would, eager for him to finish his short, sharp thrusts. He placed his hands on the wet wall and groaned aloud at the disappointment of it all.
'Pay up, you bugger,' she demanded as she rearranged her clothes.
'Pay you?' A soft mist curled over the cobbles as he pushed her away. 'You've drunk me bloody dry, you witch.' He kicked her hard and she fell on the cobbles.
She was still cursing as he staggered away. He felt no sympathy for a woman daft enough to work the docks alone. Consoling himself for the unsatisfying encounter, he pulled up the collar of his jacket and strode into the high street.
A long walk back to Bow Street … but he intended to give Mary Doyle another chance. She'd been a nice little earner and he liked his life of leisure. He had managed to avoid enlistment with a little dodging and weaving, but the drawback was her kids, although the girl was growing up fast and would make him a few bob on the docks. Jack grinned lustily as he turned into Bow Street.
He'd have Mary on her knees and begging him to stay. Nine days away from her nagging had shown he didn't care. The whore would welcome him with open arms.
Mary Doyle sat in front of a cracked mirror dressed in a black silk blouse and tight green skirt. Her hair fell loosely on her white skin and the look in her eye told him she was far from pleased at his arrival. Jack also noted she was not on her knees, at least, not to him.
'What's going on?' he demanded as he slammed the door behind him. He looked suspiciously around expecting to find a punter. So she'd been doing trade behind his back had she, the bitch?
'Would you listen to him?' Her smoke-roughened voice was deriding as she glared at him. 'The galloping great eejit returns!'
He strode towards her and grabbed her arm. 'Where is he? Where's the devil hiding?'
She looked at him and laughed. 'The only devil in this room is right before me eyes.'
'Cough up, you lying bitch!'
She shrugged carelessly. 'I wouldn't waste me breath on you, Jack Router. Just look at the state of you.' She shook her arm free, her voice scathing. 'As far as I'm concerned your bitches can have you. Rita warned me you was a conniving, scheming bastard and so by Jesus, you are too.'
It was a reflex action. An instinctive blow that lifted her off her feet and across the bed. A blow that would have felled any man and Jack was more than surprised to find her still moving. He hit her again and again and kept on punching as she covered her face with her arms. When his hand was sore with the effort, he tore away her blouse. 'Mary Doyle, you think yourself so fine. Well, from now on changes are going to be made.' He felt a swell of desire at the sight of her huge breasts. 'Boot me out, would you? We'll see about that.' He squeezed her neck and her eyes bulged from their sockets.
'You hear me, Mary, you hear what I'm saying? You'll never toss off a punter again without paying me a cut.'
He was laughing at this thought when suddenly his head jerked back. It was an odd sensation, one he had never experienced before. He seemed to be going backwards and wondered if the drink had finally got to him. But he hadn't had that much. The brass had cleaned him out today and he'd had to curb his thirst. Then he felt an excruciating pain, a grip of iron around his neck. The pain intensified and his arms were impaled to the wall. A series of blows to his kidneys and a crunch on his face.
A figure was dancing in front of him. Or was it two? He blinked before trying a swipe, but was flung back on the wall again. His legs buckled. The taste of his own blood was in his mouth.
The last thing he remembered was begging them to stop. But he knew as sure as a tart was a tart he was a goner as the dull drum of planes overhead outweighed his screams.
Bella held Terry against her, listening to the beat of the planes as they drowned the gurgling screams inside the cottage. Ronnie had told them to stay outside until the business was finished. The sky was glowing pink over the houses and smoke filled the night air.
When Ronnie and Micky appeared again the man hung between them, arms outstretched over their shoulders as though he'd been crucified, like the figure of Jesus that Bella had seen on the broken cross in Mary's room.
'Look after your mum,' Ronnie told her jerking his head toward the cottage.
'What's he done to her?' Bella asked nervously.
'Nothing you've not seen before, kid.'
'I told you, I'm not a kid.'
'No, you're not any more,' Ronnie agreed, dragging the man into the road.
'Where you taking him?' she called, scrambling to her feet.
'For a walk. A long one.'
'Is he coming back?' Bella's eyes went wide in the hope she'd never see Jack Router again.
'Go on in now,' was the only reply she was given, so she watched them leave, listening to the man's boo
ts drag over the cobbles. The same boots that had caved in Terry's ribs. Whatever they did to him, it wasn't enough in Bella's books.
Bella took her brother's hand and led him in to their mother's bedside. She lay on the bed, half-dressed, looking at them with dull eyes. 'Look what the cat dragged in,' she slurred.
'We stayed at Micky's.'
'Ah, so it was him and that brother of his, Ronnie Bryant, took my bloke off?'
Bella nodded, keeping her distance as she had learned to do.
'Well, I hope they teach that useless git a lesson he'll not forget. Lift a hand to me, would he? Strike a defenceless woman? Good luck to your Micky and Ronnie, girl. Now, stop bloody staring and get me my fags.'
Bella pulled Terry to the sink. She took the filthy tobacco tin from the draining board, brushing away the mildew coating its surface.
Mary Doyle rolled her own with shaking hands. 'Light me a match, girl.'
Bella did as she was told. Exhaling slowly, Mary sighed in satisfaction.
When the planes grew loud again Bella led Terry into their room. 'Terry's scared,' he sobbed as she made him lay down.
'Say your prayers, then. Jesus will take care of us.' She stroked his head and covered him with the blanket.When he was asleep, she went back to Mary.
'You know, that bastard was going to kill me?' Mary reminded her again. 'See what the fecking sod did? See this? And this?' She gestured to the many bruises and cuts over her body. 'All the same, he was no better or worse than other.' Her face crumpled as she coughed, falling back on the filthy pillow to stare up at the ceiling. Dust fell like rain as the bombs landed. 'Listen to their bloody racket!' Mary exclaimed without moving. 'I might as well stay in me bed. It's as good a place to die as any.'
As Mary fell to sleep, Bella took the lighted roll-up from her fingers. She pushed it down in the stained jar with the others and then went back to Terry. The bombs fell loud and heavy and the cottage rattled as she crawled beside him.
In the darkness she said thank you to God for the prayers that He'd answered. The man was gone and hadn't returned. But then she decided to stop praying when the thought occurred to her that it was Micky and Ronnie who had delivered them from evil tonight.
Not God.
Chapter 5
July1947
Bella tossed back her hair and slid her school tie from her collar. Squeezing it into her satchel, she smiled contentedly. It was the final day of school. She was free at last and more than ready to take on the world. Her full lips turned up in a smile. 'I can only stay till half past six because of Terry,' she said to her friend Dolly Taylor as they walked past the Newcastle Arms.
Spilled ale and musky tobacco wafted out from its doors and windows into the hot day. Bella inhaled the cocktail and felt a thrill. She loved everything about the island, especially in summer when the river was full of movement as the ships passed under the bridges into the heart of the docks. Bets were being laid that it was the hottest summer in years. Bella couldn't wait to be rid of her off damp blouse and purple blue school blazer. It had been worn many times before she had bought it for next to nothing at the market. Over the years she had altered her uniform so many times it looked what it was, a total mess. As soon as she started work, she was going to buy herself some pretty frocks and her pleasure grew at the thought of it.
'You're always rushing off,' Dolly pointed out, breaking the magic spell of the wonderful summer's day.
'Terry'll be on his own. He could get up to anything.'
'You know, I can't see your Terry going back to school after you leave,' Dolly remarked as they linked arms and turned the corner.
'He might.' But privately Bella had no doubt at all that Terry's schooldays were well and truly over. At twelve years of age, he still had the mind of a child, despite his tall, thin body. It was always Bella that woke him, dressed him and got him ready for school in time.
'What's he going to do with himself all day?' Dolly pressed. 'He can't stay at home, can he? Not with him around.'
Bella had been considering the problem for some time. Not that the cripple could easily get off his backside now. It was Terry she couldn't trust. Last week he had started a fire and Mum had threatened to have him put away in an institution. She threatened often enough, but had never seen it through. This time however, the bedclothes had gone up in smoke and Terry's trousers as well. The match had been a plaything to him. He wanted to smoke the same as everyone else. It must have been some kid at school who gave him the cigarette. She had smelt the smoke quick enough to extinguish the smouldering bedclothes. Ten minutes more and the fire would have finished the job the Luftwaffe failed to do.
'The man's no threat now.' Bella shrugged casually. 'All he does is sit in the chair or drag himself down the pub. If it wasn't for the crutch he'd never get there at all.' Ever since the night Micky and Ronnie had dispensed rough justice in the middle of a disused anti-aircraft battery at the back of West Ferry Road, their lives had changed. Bella smiled to herself as she thought of the drooling figure with a claw for a hand curled over his stomach, unable to touch her now.
'He still gives me the creeps,' Dolly said.
'Yeah, well, he's no oil painting, that's for sure.'
'And all squashed into such a small house - ' Dolly put a hand up to her mouth. 'I mean, it's not that bad, but it's – '
'A dump,' Bella said for her, nodding.
'Has your mum heard from the council?'
'There's a prefab empty down the road and she's put in for it.'
'D'you think she'll get it?'
'You never know.'
Dolly shook her head in wonderment. 'You're the last family in Bow Street now. Even old Mr Billings has gone and Rita Moult too. The council's given her a flat at the top of a big block in Dagenham, would you believe?'
'Yes I would,' Bella nodded, 'just to shut her up.'
The girls laughed. Bella coiled a copper coloured lock of hair around her finger. 'Your Ray be home, will he?'
'Yeah. He's just got a new job, with the PLA, as a guard on the dock gates. With a uniform and all. And the money's good too. Mum's everso pleased.'
Bella had no doubt Mrs Taylor was beside herself with joy at her son's new appointment. She was desperate for her children to do well for themselves and enjoyed asking people how much money they earned and what their prospects were. But she was good at heart and had always made Bella welcome which was a lot more than could be said of others.
'Have you got fixed up yet?' Bella asked, knowing that Dolly hadn't.
'No, but Dad said I should go up to Poplar town hall and make enquiries. He said he'd put in a good word for me. The thing is, I want to smarten myself up a bit before I apply. I've got nothing proper to wear. I thought about getting a cherry red suit to match my beret.'
Dolly had light brown hair and plenty of curves. But she was also short and in Bella's opinion the bright coloured clothes she wore didn't flatter her.
'You're good at typing and shorthand,' Bella said, changing the subject. 'Much better than me.'
Dolly blushed. 'Typing's about the only thing I am good at.'
'That's daft Dolly. You'll never get anywhere if you think that.'
Bella would rather have gone round Micky's, but she had agreed to go to tea with Dolly because it was their last day at school. Next week she was starting work at Dixons of Stepney, the furniture people and she couldn't wait. Not that she fancied her prospective job much, but it paid good money.
'I wish I was confident like you, Bella. I was shaking like a leaf at that interview and me fingers went in all the wrong places. I couldn't even remember the shorthand properly.'
'What was there to be nervous of?'
'I don't know. But I was.'
'You're as good as the next person, probably a lot better.'
'I never think that,' Dolly said, embarrassed, adding quickly, 'So what does Micky have to say about you working up Stepney?'
'Not told him yet. Anyway, why should he hav
e anything to say on the subject?'
Bella knew exactly what her friend was getting at. Micky had wanted Bella to work for the Bryants "in the expansion of their business" as he put it, but she had refused. Not because she didn't want to, but because she did. She owed Micky everything. The way he had looked after her and Terry and even their mother, getting her a job as a barmaid at the Rose and doing up the cottage. But she felt she must show she could do something on her own. Her independence was important to her and Micky might not respect that.
'You know what I mean. Stepney's off the Bryant's patch.' Dolly raised her eyebrows as they turned into Chapel House Street. The Taylor's house was a mid terrace council house with a shining brass horseshoe fixed to the yellow painted front door. The windows all had lace curtains and to the left by the path there was a small square of mowed lawn edged with a border of flowers. 'Not that it would stop Micky from having something if he wanted it bad enough,' Dolly giggled as they stood on the front doorstep. 'And we all know what that something is, don't we?'
Bella's cheeks flushed fiercely. 'I'm fifteen, Dolly. Not fifty. And for your information Micky doesn't own me.'
'No, but he thinks he does.'
'Well he don't know much then.'
'And you're daft about him.'
'I'm not!'
'You are!' Dolly sighed dramatically. 'Anyway, it won't stop our Ray from giving you the eye, so be prepared. He'll be done up to the nines in his Sunday best, just you wait. All I hope is I don't wet my drawers with laughter at the sight of him.'
Bella grabbed her friend's arms. 'Dolly, I'll crown you if you've told Ray I fancy him because I don't.'
'I've not breathed a word! Anyway, what's wrong with my brother? Some girls would think he's a real catch.'
Bella didn't have time to reply as the door opened. Raymond Taylor stood there and was, as his sister predicted, dressed in a suit, his chin supported by a tie and shirt that looked as though it was choking him. He blushed at the sight of Bella who had often thought that her friend's older brother was good looking in a sort of dull, conventional way. Soft brown hair and eyes just begging to be noticed. But as she walked past him, she knew that Dolly had spoken the truth. Micky Bryant was the only one who could make her heart race like a train with just the briefest flash of his lovely dark eyes.
