Keep on Dancing, page 23
‘Don’t go shooting your mouth off, OK? I’ll break the news – my way.’
Knowing George well enough to realize that this was the time to hold her tongue, she followed him up the narrow stone staircase of the badly lit, Dickensian flats. ‘About time they pulled this lot down,’ he mumbled as they made their way up to the third floor. Using the knuckle of his third finger, he tapped lightly on the door and waited. There was no answer and no sound of movement from inside.
‘I said he was out,’ whispered Rosie.
George put his finger to his lips and knocked again, listening intently. ‘Reggie, it’s me, George.’
The sound of shuffling and a key turning in the lock brought a sigh from them both and a smile to George’s face. ‘I was right… he’s got a bird in there.’
When the door opened and Reggie stood there with a sawn-off shotgun in his hand, the cheeky grin drained from George’s face. ‘It’s a good job you spoke when you did.’ Reggie jerked his head to one side, an indication for them to get inside and quick. ‘Shut the door and lock it,’ he said, resuming his position in his chair, facing the door with his gun aimed at it. ‘Sit over there, Rosie, out of the way. You as well, George.’
‘What’s goin’ on?’ George dragged a chair across the room and placed it next to Rosie. ‘Who you expecting?’
‘As if you didn’t know.’ He threw Rosie a look of misgiving. ‘Keep well clear of that door.’
‘You look frightened, Reg,’ said Rosie, concerned.
‘Frightened? I’m fucking terrified. Be quiet for five minutes.’ He stretched one leg, brought his gun up and took aim, the centre of the door being his target. ‘If they ain’t followed you up we can relax.’
‘There wasn’t any sign of ’em, Reg.’
‘They were out there. They’re gonna come up any second and go for the three of us or turn back.’ He flicked a finger to order silence and waited, creating a chilling stillness. After a few minutes had ticked slowly by, he drew a breath and sighed. ‘Gone.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘You two ’ave just used up two of your lives and one of mine. Think yourself lucky they didn’t jump you down there. Silly bastards. Put the kettle on, Rosie.’
‘How’d you know they won’t come now,’ Rosie just managed to say, her face showing fear.
‘That lot don’t think things out. They’re straight in.’
‘So why didn’t they—’
‘Leave you for dead?’ Reggie shrugged and chuckled quietly. ‘Luck was on your side, babe. It would’ve bin the little boys trying to do a man’s job.’ He shook his head at the pair of them. ‘Fancy goin’ to the police.’
George narrowed his eyes, his expression serious. ‘She had her reasons. One of the Maltese’s been taking the piss. Kerb-crawling Rosie – been tormenting the life out of her.’
‘You said they’d been seen to, Reg. There wasn’t a mark on ’is face and he was smiling. Out there… free and smiling over it. I should think Tommy’s body’s crawling with maggots by now.’
‘Yeah, all right, point taken. They’re liberty-takers.’ He dropped into an armchair and started to laugh. ‘You’re either hare-brained or gutsy, Rosie. I ain’t sure which.’
‘The law’s got the three of ’em you know,’ George said, a touch proud of his girl. ‘The ringleaders. They ain’t gonna enjoy Christmas.’ He sipped his tea. ‘I think she did well, as it happens.’
‘Luck was on ’er side, Georgie. If the Old Bill ’adn’t picked ’em up straight away, all three of ’em… we’d be minced meat by now. You’re gonna ’ave to go away for a while, Rosie. We’ll ’ave to find you a little cottage in the country – miles from anywhere.’
‘No you won’t. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got a show to put on.’
‘Don’t be silly. You can’t stay round ’ere till the trial comes up—’
‘Can’t I?’
Reggie looked from her to George. ‘Talk some sense into ’er, will you?’
‘I’ve tried. She won’t listen.’
‘Take ’er to Scotland for a couple of months. She’ll be all right up there. They won’t make hide nor ’air of her accent.’
‘S’cuse me,’ Rosie said, straight-faced. ‘I am ’ere. Could you talk to me instead of George?’
Reaching down to a small cupboard, Reggie pulled out a bottle of Scotch. ‘Women. Why’d we bother with ’em?’
‘Try existing without us.’
‘I do, babe. Believe me… I do.’
‘But you can’t.’
‘Get some glasses out of that cupboard over the sink,’ he said, relieved that he had someone to drink with. Sitting alone, with death looking him in the face, had not been easy. ‘I s’pose we’re all gonna ’ave to keep an eye on you.’
‘No you’re not. I’m gonna go about my life as usual.’ She grinned at him and winked. ‘I’ve got the law on my side.’
Reggie shuddered and went cold. ‘Tommy just turned in ’is grave.’
Chapter 12
For three months Rosie had worked like a Trojan. Once the theatre was in fair shape, she left it to others to add the finishing touches. Larry had risen to foreman, not because he wanted the responsibility, but since Harriet had liked the title but not the work, he had had no choice. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed spending time with the women: their earthy sense of humour appealed to him – he found their coarse jokes funnier than his own.
Having been released from that side of things, Rosie had thrown herself into rehearsals, working every hour that she was not at the brewery, and rewriting scenes into the early hours of the morning. Up until now she had rehearsed without a director, believing that she, knowing the play so well, could better instruct the actors what to do, but now it was time to bring Richard in – she was out of her depth and time was running out. The choreographer had come up trumps and worked out excellent dance routines, including a cameo solo for Rosie, who was to be in a dream sequence at the end of the first act and then at the close of the show. Things were going well, but it was clear that the actors were in need of a director. The man who usually directed the Stepney drama group in their amateur productions had offered to come in should they need him, but he had since had a heart attack and was on bedrest in the Bethnal Green Hospital. Richard had promised his time, hut had been so busy with exams and his new girlfriend that he had been unable to comply. Now that it had become urgent, Rosie knew she would have to push him for an answer, or find someone else. Others had joined the show along the way, professional actors who had heard about the new project and were happy to come aboard, only too happy to support the cause. But they were used to real guidance, and they had become demanding.
With the murder trial coming up at the Old Bailey, Rosie did her utmost to try to push it from her mind by concentrating on her musical. Knowing that the killers were behind bars in Wandsworth Prison had helped, but as the time drew near for her to stand in the witness box, she was beginning to wish she had not gone to the police.
Her thoughts were invaded by scenes of herself in the High Court, as she strolled towards the Prospect hoping that Richard would be there. She hadn’t seen him for quite a while. He had sent her a letter saying that the final exams were almost over, and that he felt confident he had done well, which was a relief for more reasons than one. He would not have to resit, which meant he would be free to help her. She had set a date for the show, now to be called Love in Lavender. They were to open on the eighth of September for a two-week trial run… and that was just two months away! She had set herself a daunting task, and would have to focus all her time and energy to get it in shape on time, with the actors ready to give professional, well-rehearsed performances.
Going into the Prospect to meet Richard had become a routine, and the students had accepted her as one of the crowd – except Bertie, who kept his distance, sneering from afar. He had popped up twice since she had warned him off, and there had been no way of telling whether it was a coincidence or planned. She preferred to believe the former – it gave her one less problem to worry over.
‘You’ve saved me a walk,’ Richard said, taking her arm and leading her to a table outside, overlooking the river. ‘I was about to call on you. Good news.’ He smiled and winked at her, reminding her once again of her brother. ‘Aunt Isobelle wants to meet you. She even apologized for not being able to get to the theatre that day when you were late and it all fell apart. I didn’t tell her about that, naturally.’
‘Why does she want to meet me?’ Rosie asked, surprised by her own lack of interest. So much had happened since the beginning of the project, when she had wanted to meet other people in the business. Now all she was concerned with was getting on with it.
‘She’s happy to give you any advice she can, and… is offering her help too.’ He rubbed his finger and thumb together. ‘She’s loaded, darling…’ He looked more than pleased with himself.
‘Richard, that’s really good. Smashing news, but… right now I’m more interested in your help.’ Distracted and obviously happy now that the pressure of exams was off, he waved to a few friends who had just arrived in the pub. ‘Richard…?’
‘Sorry. Sorry. Where was I, oh yes – Aunt Isobelle. I told her all about you, but not that we’re related… and she can’t wait to say hello.’ He leaned forward and nudged her on the arm. ‘She’s never met a real cockney before, let alone listened to one. She asked me if you were a flower seller,’ he chuckled. ‘I think My Fair Lady’s gone to her brain.’
‘Richard… what about you? You directing my show?’ She was beginning to lose her patience with him.
‘Oh that…’ he smiled teasingly. ‘I’m free from next Friday to help you with Lavender Lady – if that’s still the title?’
She slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes, silently thanking God. ‘The title’s changed. It’s Love in Lavender.’
The smile drained from his face. ‘Love in Lavender?’
‘Yes. And it’s final. I’m not going all through that again. Me and the cast ’ave already had a long-drawn-out discussion on what it should be. Anyway… the leaflets and posters are with the printer, so we can’t change it. I don’t want to change it.’
Laughing at her indignant expression, he reached out and stroked a young girl on the arm as she cleared the table next to them. ‘Couldn’t fetch us two g and t’s could you, Linda?’
‘I got ticked off last time I did that,’ she said, mildly flirting with him. ‘You’re supposed to go to the bar like everyone else.’
‘Please…?’
She sighed hopelessly. ‘Them bloody eyes of yours.’ She eyed Rosie and shrugged. ‘’Ow can I refuse? If you ever get tired of him…’
‘We’re cousins.’ Rosie reeled off the words with seasoned practice.
‘Second cousins,’ added Richard, looking into her face.
‘We’re still related.’ She turned to the bar girl. ‘He’s all yours.’
Carrying her tray loaded with empty glasses, Linda winked and walked away smiling.
‘So you do still want me to direct the show, then? Wouldn’t prefer to get a professional in?’
‘Don’t talk daft. I thought it was you who was losing interest.’
‘Have you spoken to anyone about designing the posters yet?’
‘I just said, they’re at the printer’s. I’ll make sure your name’s in capital letters, don’t worry.’
‘I should hope so. I take it Bertie’s been as good as his word?’ he said, changing the subject.
‘I don’t know about that, but he ’asn’t been bothering me. He’s a drip, Richard. A pansy.’
‘You could be right there,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a Chinese supper?’
‘No. I ’ad me dinner before I came out. I’m full up. Anyway, I’m going to the Star. See how the old costumes cleaned up.’
‘Can’t keep away from the place, can you?’
‘Nope. You can come if you want.’
‘Nope. I’m bleedin’ well starving,’ he said, mimicking her.
Having finished her drink, Rosie stood up and placed one hand on Richard’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad you’re coming on board. I need you. And thanks for putting a word in for me with your aunt. I won’t let you down. I’ll talk in me broadest cockney.’
He relaxed back in his chair and looked into her face. ‘It is legal, you know. Second cousins—’
‘I knew you’d check that out! Listen… if it wasn’t for George, who I think the world of…’ She flicked her hair back and returned his smile. ‘Think of me as a sister.’
‘Do you really love George?’ he said, doing his utmost to sound astonished that she could choose him in preference to himself.
‘Yes… and what’s more, I intend to be his wife. Have his children. I’m spoken for, Richard. Get that into your daft head and we’ll get on like a house of fire.’
‘Fair enough.’ He tried to sound hurt, but she had a feeling that his chase had all been a bit of a lark. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he had placed a bet on her with his chums.
‘I’m going to the Star. I’ll be back ’ome by ten… if you’re still around, pop in. You can finish off the shepherd’s pie Gran made. You can take me to Chinatown another time… I don’t wanna miss out.’ She pinched his cheek affectionately and left, easing her way through the crowd of happy drinkers, knowing she had just delivered him a soft blow. She hadn’t planned to tell him yet, or to tell him in quite that way: choosing the right words had been difficult but as it turned out, he had made it easier by pushing her into a corner, a spacious corner, but a corner no less.
With one worry off her mind, she stepped out of the crowded, smoky bar and braced herself for another testing walk through the backstreets. She had managed to convince everyone she was confident, but not a day had passed since Bertie assaulted her when she had not been wary, watching the shadows in case anyone stepped out. Forcing the fear from her, she brought the old costumes to mind.
When Larry had taken her into the walk-in wardrobe and given her the freedom to go through the boxes of well-wrapped cloaks, period gowns and a vast array of separates, she had experienced something unique. As luck would have it, there were eight matching light grey ankle-length cotton frocks which could be dyed lavender and were more than suitable for her flower-pickers. Other items, with a tuck and stitch, could be altered to suit other players. Tilly, ever enthusiastic, had volunteered to work alongside another of the women who had joined the troupe as costume designer.
Disappointment over two boxes which had not been fully protected from moths, had been redeemed by those which had survived intact. Shoes and boots had been wrapped in muslin bags together with cedarwood shavings. The clothes had been wrapped in the same fabric, with shavings of camphor wood and the seeds of the musk plant. Larry’s mother, thankfully, had always shared his father’s hope that one day the theatre would be used again and the costumes would see the light of day. Once Rosie had seen the collection of satin and lace period gowns, she had had to force herself to focus her mind on the play in hand and not get carried away with what she might do in the future, when she would make full use of the Victorian clothes.
Excited by the prospect of seeing those items which had been dry-cleaned and those which had been dyed, she paid no attention to the old American car parked by the gasworks. So deep in thought was she that when three female medical students passed and said hello, Rosie was surprised to find herself five minutes away from the pub when it seemed as if only a few seconds had passed since she left the Prospect. Amused by the fact that she had been mumbling to herself when the girls had strolled by, she wondered what they might be saying about her. If she wasn’t careful, she could easily be reputed as the crazy woman who talked to herself.
‘You just can’t keep away from the backstreets, can you?’ From the shadows, Bertie’s disparaging voice had a different effect on her than it had had on other occasions. It was a mixture of pity and repulsion.
‘Ain’t you got better things to do?’ Her tone was a good match for his.
‘Of course I have, whore. But I enjoy haunting you. It’s light relief after a day of lectures and studies.’
‘You do know that that lot…’ she gestured back towards the Prospect, ‘think you’re a joke?’
He leaned forward and grinned at her. ‘They think you’re a whore… but whose keeping score?’
‘Look… you don’t frighten me any more. You’re flogging a dead ’orse and… making yourself look like a prat. Forget it. You got what you deserved; I got what I didn’t deserve; everyone’s forgot, and can’t be bothered…’
‘I’ve not forgotten. That’s the important thing. I’m—’ The sudden slamming of a car door stopped him in his tracks. When the second and third door slammed shut, both his and Rosie’s attention was riveted. ‘Run!’ The word was out before she could think, and her body stiffened as if every muscle had locked. The one word of warning was not meant for him alone, but for both of them.
‘Good grief,’ he mused, ‘three of them at once. You are industrious…’ No sooner were his words out, than the three young thugs wearing smart suits and slicked-back hair were rushing across the narrow road, heading straight for them. The first to arrive grabbed Rosie’s hair and pulled her head back. ‘Who’s he?’
Taken off guard, Bertie put up both hands and stepped back. ‘She’s all yours. I don’t go in for sluts.’
‘Someone’s trying to be funny,’ sneered one youth as he released the catch on his flick knife. With the point on the tip of Bertie’s ear, he clenched his teeth and moved his face so close that they were almost touching. ‘He asked who you were.’
Rosie, snared and unable to move her head, found her voice. ‘Get help! Run!’
The point of the knife flashed from Bertie’s ear to his throat. ‘Move or say one word and you’re dead.’
‘We’re not here to eliminate – this time,’ said the third as he pushed a knuckleduster on to his right hand. ‘It’s a warning.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘Appear in court and your family will be pushing up blood-soaked daisies.’
