Keep on Dancing, page 3
‘Reggie…’ She raised an eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Tommy, not you. That’s why they came for ’im. I don’t want Rosie to find out – ever.’
‘All right. Ill see to it.’ He inhaled slowly, hitched back his shoulders and went into the living room, telling her not to worry.
Chapter 2
The day of the funeral started early for Rosie. She woke at first light and watched the dawn through the window as she lay in her bed listening to the early morning street noises. Wondering if she would ever get over her loss, she reached for the small framed snapshot taken when she, Tommy, Harriet and Iris had gone to Southend for the day. She trailed her finger across the group photograph and stopped at her mother’s face, scratching at the surface, telling herself that if Iris hadn’t been giving the living room that unnecessary going-over on the day Tommy had been murdered, maybe he wouldn’t have gone out; maybe Rosie wouldn’t have been in her room practising her dance steps but downstairs with her brother and gran, watching the racing, cheering on their fancied bets.
She looked from Tommy’s smiling face to her own and wondered if she would ever laugh again. She couldn’t imagine it. Tommy’s mates had done their best to lighten things during their numerous visits, telling stories of the hilarious situations that they and Tommy had found themselves in when a job had gone wrong. Harriet had done her bit – telling the men what a little rascal he was when he was knee-high to a grasshopper.
Checking her bedside clock, Rosie counted the hours of sleep she had managed to get that night. It had just gone five o’clock. Four hours. Four hours of nightmares. The forever recurring dream had slipped in somewhere between the others… her brother alone in an empty room, on the top floor of a block of flats which had no staircase; the same puzzled expression on his face as he looked down at her. His eyes always asking the same question – Why won’t you come up, Ro? Where is everyone? In her dreams she had screamed at the top of her voice but all he did was to stare down at her, pale-faced and looking older than his years, his hair thin and greying instead of thick and dark brown.
‘No stairs Tommy,’ she sighed, ‘and no lifts… no way up or down.’ Pressing both hands into her face, she stopped herself from crying. Today she would be strong. Today she would laugh at the jokes, for Tommy’s sake. For all she knew her gran could be right and his spirit might still be around. He wouldn’t want to see her looking downcast. Harriet had insisted that she had smelled his Brylcreem in the air and sensed his presence. She had said that it would be only natural for Tommy to want to be there, seeing all his mates coming and going. As far as Harriet was concerned, her grandson would not miss his own funeral – not in a million years. Let the devil try to stop him! Those had been her words, and she had meant what she had said – believed it.
‘Once today’s over,’ Rosie told herself, ‘I’ll be all right. I’ll pack all your things into a suitcase and I’ll give them away. They won’t go to waste.’ She thought about him wearing his new suit on that Saturday and began to cry. ‘Everyone dies sooner or later… every single one of us. So I’ll see you again, Tommy… I’ll see you up there.’ She closed her eyes tight and asked God to help her through this one day – just this one day – then she would cope by herself.
Pulling at the top sheet, she pressed it against her face and allowed it to soak up her tears. ‘I’ll make your prediction come right, that’s a promise. I’ll make it on to the West End stage, even if I have to flirt with the director. I’ll close my eyes and think of Wapping,’ she repeated one of Tommy’s sayings. Whenever there was an unpleasant task to be done, be it scrubbing and whitening the doorstep on Iris’s orders or having to take something to the pawn shop, he would wink and smile and cut short the sentence – Wapping, Rosie, Wapping. There was no real meaning to it, but it had become their own way of hanging on to some self-respect.
Family income had been spasmodic to say the least. They were either skint or in the money, depending on the success or failure of a planned robbery. Tommy’s wages from the docks had been, in so far as he was concerned, bread and butter and no more. When an illicit job was successful, the larder was full, the cocktail bar in the living room replenished and new clothes bought all round. For Tommy it was down the Waste to Sabel’s or Davis’s for a suit, and Albert’s for silk shirts and ties. For shoes it would be Dolcis, Medway’s or Bresloff’s. The shopping always had to be local: his ill-gotten gains went no further than the East End – Tommy’s way of spreading his booty around his neighbourhood.
Remembering the good times, shopping with her gran came to Rosie’s mind. Shopping in Merlyn’s and Pearl’s, ladies’ fashion. Harriet would go from one store to the other, trying on every dress and coat on the rail and trying to beat them down, using the competitive shops as levers. Iris never went with them; she preferred to go by herself to Vanity Fair, next to the Empire Picture Place, to shop in peace. For that Harriet had thanked Christ, in her usual way. She didn’t want her stony-faced daughter spoiling her fun.
Sighing, Rosie plumped her pillow and lay back again, wondering how the family would manage now. She loved her job at the box factory, it was a good laugh, but the pay was low compared to other factories. Charrington’s brewery paid better, but she had never fancied working on a conveyor belt. There were other ways of making money, of course there were. She could find herself a couple of sugar daddies, like her schoolfriend Sandra who loved strolling around Wapping in her classy West End clothes, giving off airs and graces. Or she could go to work for the Butler brothers in their private gambling club in Bethnal Green. She’d been offered a job there once, working the roulette tables, but Tommy had given it the thumbs down, telling her that some of the men there were evil.
The living nightmare returned; the vision of him slumped across the settee; the three men with their black, slicked-back hair and sneering, jeering faces twisted inside like the knife which had killed him. She regretted not having grabbed it and stuck it into one of them.
That’s right darlin’ – make it a good one. Tommy’s imaginary voice caused her to look up at the rising sun as it shone through her window. An unexpected smile appeared on her face; she began to glow, and in her mind’s eye she could see her brother smiling and winking at her.
‘Gran was right, then. You do want to come to your own funeral.’
That’s right, darlin’ – make it a good one. Go and help Mum to make the sandwiches and that. She’s in the kitchen. And ’ave a couple of whiskies for me. Whipping back her bedclothes, she leaped off the bed. Vivid imagination or not, it made no difference to Rosie. If she could pretend he was in the room with her, that was better than nothing. She stood barefoot on the rag mat made by her gran and slowly turned around, half expecting to see a vision of her brother. ‘Are you here, Tommy, or is it all in my mind?’
The room was silent and still but she felt in her heart that he was there.
Smiling, she went in search of her gran. Sending Harriet’s bedroom door crashing against the wall, she fell into the room to see Harriet in bed, propped up against four pillows, sipping a glass of brandy.
‘What the ’ell d’you want at this ungodly hour?’
‘Gran, will you take me to see Lou Ambrose?’
‘What for?’
‘You know what for. I wanna go to a seance.’
Harriet narrowed her eyes and sniffed. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in all that bollocks?’
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Oh, ’ave you now?’ She peered at Rosie’s face. ‘Something’s brought the colour back into your cheeks… What you bin up to?’
‘You gonna take me or not?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Stop sodding about. Yes or no?’
‘I’ll tell you after the funeral. See ’ow you behave yourself. I was gonna go for a little seance next week, as it so happens. If you get all morbid and miserable again the answer’s no, you can’t come. Bloody face on you all this week’s enough to make us wanna slit our wrists.’
Rosie pointed a finger at her gran. ‘Right. I’m keeping you to that.’
‘Keeping me to what?’
‘If I don’t cry… if I laugh at his mates’ jokes and stories, we go to see the medium, right?’
‘Medium, is it?’ Harriet chuckled. ‘I’ll tell Lou she’s been upgraded.’ She drained the last drop of brandy from her glass. ‘She’ll wanna tell your fortune.’
‘Good.’
‘But I stop in the room and earwig. That’s the deal. Like it or lump it.’
‘Got no bleedin’ choice then, ’ave I?’ Flicking her hair back, Rosie left the room, believing she had just won a round. In truth, Harriet had often considered taking Rosie with her but had always decided against it. Lou was a good spiritualist – if she couldn’t see into the future, no one could, and Rosie was too sensitive for all that. Harriet remembered Lou once telling her that she would lose someone close when they were too young to die. Tommy had only just turned thirty-one. No doubt her impetuous granddaughter would forget all about it. If not, Harriet would find a way round not going. She could out-talk most people.
* * *
Stepping into the aisle of the packed church, George Rider looked across at Rosie, Iris and Harriet and smiled. ‘There are three women here today who meant more to Tommy than anyone could. I think we all know who those women are. And if he had been given half a chance to say something before he died, he would have apologized for giving his family all this grief. That was Tommy. And that’s why I chose this song which I’m gonna sing for ’im.’
Standing by the coffin, facing the mourners, George, tall and broad, immaculately dressed, cleared his throat, braced himself and then filled the church with his heartrending voice.
‘I’m sorry for… the things I’ve done,
I know that I’m the fool-ish one…’
‘Bang on,’ whispered Harriet, the tears rolling down her cheeks. She had heard her grandson play that song many times and remembered telling him to mark the words. Without thinking she took hold of Iris’s hand.
Pushing her chin out defiantly, Iris willed herself not to cry and clasped her other hand around Rosie’s. ‘We’ll be all right,’ she said, straining the muscles in her throat, ‘we’ll be fine.’
* * *
Once Tommy had been laid to rest and the three women were seated in the funeral car, Iris, still dry-eyed, spoke in a deadpan voice. ‘Rosie… I’m sorry. OK? I’m sorry. I blamed you for your father. That’s all there is to say.’
Rosie looked away, out of the window, wishing that her dad would suddenly appear, out of breath from running, saying that he had gone to the wrong cemetery; showing that he did care enough to turn up for his only son’s funeral.
‘It’s taken me all these years…’ Iris slowly shook her head, ‘all this time… and his murder… to see the light. Your father was – and still is – a very self-centred man.’
‘And you were too obstinate to listen to a bit of common sense,’ said Harriet bitterly. ‘Sorry? After the way you’ve neglected her? Think yourself lucky she’s not bitter as well.’ She turned her face away, feigning interest in something outside.
‘Like me, you mean?’
‘If the cap fits, Iris…’
An empty silence followed as the driver slowly pulled away and they privately said their last farewells to Tommy. ‘I thought that was really lovely of George to sing,’ murmured Rosie. ‘I didn’t know he had a voice like that.’
‘The acoustics helped,’ Harriet said, ending that line of conversation. She didn’t want to think about that song now that the funeral was over; didn’t want to think about him having to say sorry for anything. He had done more for the three of them than anyone could have asked. ‘George thought the world of Tommy… and he’s got a scar to prove it. Thanks to those vicious bastards.’
‘It’s gonna be strange around the house without him,’ said Iris, caught up in her thoughts.
‘We’ll all ’ave to make an effort then, won’t we? Make up for ’im not being there. Talk to each other instead of at each other.’ Harriet gave her daughter a sidelong glance, adding, ‘Show a bit of feeling.’
‘Think you can take that, do you?’ There was a touch of humour in Iris’s voice, which surprised Rosie. She had only joked when she was scoring points with her son.
‘You’ll get a bloody clip round the ear if you get too lippy, my girl. I should ’ave given you a right- ’ander when Bill buggered off. Letting your man go like that! Never known anything so bloody stupid.’
‘What was I s’posed to do, beg?’
‘Fight! Like most other women! You ’ave to fight to keep your man with all them bloody tarts out there waiting to get their ’ooks in.’
‘Over my dead body. Me, fight for a man? Never!’
‘Nor me,’ Rosie said, surprised at her gran’s sweeping statement. ‘Did you ’ave to fight over Grandad, then?’
‘No I bloody well didn’t! He was too petrified to even look at another woman… which is how it should be.’
‘If you say so, Gran.’ Rosie smiled, catching her mother’s eye. ‘If that’s what they did in your day, in Victorian times…’
‘And you can get that tone out of your voice! My mother would turn in ’er grave if she could hear her own great-grandchild—’
‘I didn’t think you knew your mum, Gran?’
‘She can still turn in ’er grave, can’t she? Besides… I did know ’er up until I was ten, when I ran away.’
Rosie looked at Iris and shrugged. Harriet hardly ever spoke of her early life. ‘Why did you do that then? She wasn’t cruel to you, was she?’
‘’Course she wasn’t cruel! I knew where my bread was buttered, that’s all.’ Harriet looked out of the car window again and quietly chuckled. ‘I could tell you a thing or two. Tommy thought it was hilarious. Had to know all the ins and outs, of course. It was your grandfather who told ’im. I suspect the two of them are up there now, enjoying the joke.’
‘Well, come on then! Tell us. Get it off your chest. Get the skeleton out the cupboard.’
‘It’ll keep.’
Rosie turned to Iris. ‘Do you know what she’s going on about?’
‘No idea. What she’s just told you is about as much as she’s told me… a hundred times. She’s making it up for a bit of attention.’
‘Madam bleedin’ know-all…’ Harriet shook her head and chuckled. ‘It’s bin driving ’er mad for years. I know something that she don’t. And what a something, eh? What a something!’ She slapped her knee and laughed. ‘One of these days I might tell yer… depends.’
‘We’re not interested.’ Iris spoke as if she were bored hearing it. ‘Old people’s ’ome… that’s where we’ll put you if you’re not careful.’
‘You and the world’d ’ave to drag me there. Good God, we’re back home already!’ Harriet straightened her black straw hat and brushed the creases out of her skirt. ‘Let’s ’ope that Shirley Martin’s mother’s got the kettle on.’
‘She will have,’ said Rosie. ‘And don’t you forget to thank her! She’s doing us a favour getting everything ready.’
‘I did it all before we left.’ Harriet let herself out of the car before the funeral director had a chance to open the door for her.
‘She’s in one of her mischievous moods,’ muttered Rosie impatiently.
‘It’s her way of coping. She’ll be different once we’re inside with everyone milling around her, filling her with brandy.’ Iris turned to face her daughter. ‘I meant what I said; I am sorry. I never hated you. I just… I don’t know… I can’t explain what I felt.’
‘Try to forget it. I have.’ Try as she might, Rosie could not show her mother the love that she was searching for. There was nothing there. ‘Come on. Let’s get inside before all the others arrive.’ She got out of the black car, surprised by the resentment rising from the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to be reminded of her past, of all those empty years when she was a child and desperate to feel Iris’s arms around her.
* * *
The passage, stairs and living room of the house was packed with friends and relatives within minutes of the women’s return, and the sound of Harriet’s laughter rose above the chatter. If nothing else, she was determined that the send-off drink would not be a morbid affair. If she had had her way, the record player would have gone on, too.
‘It was a nice service, Rosie,’ Reggie the ex-boxer said, his voice full of compassion.
‘It was lovely, Reggie. The vicar kept it short and honest. I liked the way he slipped in that bit about it being tough for young people growing up in the East End… not that he was talking to anyone who didn’t already know that, but at least it showed he knew and cared.’ Rosie, half smiling, commended herself for being able to talk about the funeral service without getting emotional. She felt a strange relief. ‘George surprised me. I never knew he could sing like that. I was really touched.’
‘Can’t ’elp it, can he,’ grinned Reggie. ‘Given half a chance he’d sing at everyone’s funeral. The boy’s a performer looking for an audience.’
Laughing at his sense of humour, Rosie looked across the room at George. ‘Scar don’t show all that much, do it?’
‘No-ooo… ’course not. It was just a scratch…’ Reggie drank some of his beer and chuckled. ‘Bit of a cry-baby is George.’
‘Don’t be mean.’
‘I’m pulling your leg, Rosie. Gotta look after your welfare… otherwise Tommy’ll be waiting for me when I get up there.’
‘My welfare…? I don’t get it.’
‘George. He’s a womanizer. Got a girl in every dance hall.’
Taken aback, she peered at him. ‘What’s that to me?’
‘You mustn’t go falling for ’im…’
‘I was admiring his voice! What’s wrong with that?’
‘And ’is face. You must ’ave been looking at it, Rosie, to ’ave noticed the scar.’
