Keep on Dancing, page 4
‘Leave off.’ She looked across at George. ‘As it ’appens, he is a looker.’ And so he was: dark-blond hair, blue eyes and a nice tan. ‘I reckon Tommy’s clothes would fit ’im. They’ve got the same taste. D’yer reckon I should ask if he wants them?’
‘No…’ Reggie pressed his lips together and turned his head to one side, choked. Those few loaded words were more gut-wrenching than anything the vicar had said during the service.
‘The flash boys ’ave been sorted out, by the way…’ he said, changing the subject. ‘By their own people. They caused a lot of trouble taking a liberty like that. Killing one of ours for no reason.’
‘What, the Maltese hit three of their own people?’
‘To keep the peace. Gave ’em a good hiding and sent them away on a long journey. I wouldn’t like to ’ave been in their shoes.’
‘Them sausage rolls are lovely!’ George said, arriving with a plate of food in one hand and a pint in the other. ‘You’ve done your Tommy proud.’
‘Thanks.’ Rosie felt herself blush. ‘And thanks for singing in the church. You should be on the stage, George. Earn a fortune.’
‘Oh, don’t tell ’im that… we’ll never ’ear the last of it.’
‘Reggie’s always bin a bit jealous of my talent.’ He smiled and winked at Rosie. ‘And my looks. I’m better looking than ’im and he knows it.’
‘Not now you ain’t. Not with that fucking scar.’ Laughing, Reggie made a hasty retreat towards the beer table.
‘Now then Rosie,’ said George, his face serious, ‘how about you and me going out for a drink tonight and then on for a steak supper at Ziggy’s?’
‘Talk sense. We’ve only just buried my brother.’ She felt her cheeks glow.
‘So?’
‘What would people think?’
‘Who cares? If they think you’re a diamond… what difference would it make to your life? None. Right?’
‘Right…’
‘So?’
‘No. Thanks anyway, but I couldn’t. It’s bad enough that Gran’s blackmailed me into not crying today, let alone going on a pub crawl with you.’
‘Tomorrow then. For Tommy’s sake. He’d want me to look after you.’
‘Oh, and that’s why you’re asking, is it?’ Rosie said, mildly flirting with him.
‘No. I think you’re a little cracker. Always ’ave done. Tommy always said I was too old for you. Wouldn’t let me ask you out.’ He shrugged, trying to win her over. ‘I’m only twenty-eight and what are you, twenty-three… four…?’
‘It wouldn’t ’ave bin the age difference, George. It’s because you’re a Jack the Lad. You thieve for a living.’
‘’Course I don’t! I’m a docker.’
‘Yeah… and the rest.’
‘A week from today, then?’
‘I’d rather go to the pictures.’
‘Fair enough. Pictures first and then a steak. Right?’
She sipped her sherry and looked back into his eyes instead of avoiding them. ‘No funny business.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he laughed, turning away and easing himself through the crowded room. Admiring his broad shoulders, Rosie felt a tingling inside. Catching sight of herself in the long mirror in the passage, she was pleased. Her new black two-piece with its fitted jacket and mid-calf skirt showed off her figure to a treat. She admired her legs, ankles and suede stiletto shoes. Her face was pale from the lack of sleep and her hair, although freshly washed and gleaming, hung down in unruly curls and waves, reminding her of Harriet. Still, she didn’t look too bad. A match for George, anyway.
Watching as he joined Reggie and the rest of the boys, she began to feel angry again. Tommy should have been there, laughing and joking with them. This gathering should have been one of the many parties held at one or the other’s houses over the years – not a funeral.
Remembering the way he had looked at her when he knew that his life was in danger, she shuddered. He was scared. Terrified. So much so that he couldn’t cover it up the way he would have wanted. From as far back as she could remember, her brother had protected her from all life’s cares and woes. He had a smile that had said Don’t worry, it’s all in hand.
Of course she wished that day away in its entirety; but her worst memory was that look on his face which she could only hope would fade with time and take away the bitter ache inside: the resentment, the hate. The one thing that still puzzled her was the one-liner from the Maltese who had slapped her face: You can whore for us instead of your brother. Surely the boys weren’t involved in that seedy side of life?
Working her way through the crowded room, smiling and nodding at well-meant words of comfort, she made towards Reggie and squeezed his arm for attention, whispering that she wanted a word in private.
Leading him upstairs to the only part of the house devoid of guests, she went into her bedroom and sat on her bedside chair and lowered her head. ‘I’ve got something to ask you, Reggie – and I don’t want a load of lies.’
‘Go on then.’ He cleared his throat and waited.
‘Are you and the boys… were you running a whores’ ring?’ She raised her eyes and stared him out. ‘Ill find out from somewhere else if you won’t tell me.’
‘’Course we wasn’t. The Maltese had the ’ump with us ’cos they couldn’t muscle in on our patch. The police turn a blind eye to the clubs we look after; they’re well run and there’s never any bother. If we pull a little job, we make sure we bung a bit their way…’ He laughed quietly and shook his head. ‘Tommy wouldn’t get involved with whores, Rosie, you should know that.’
‘So that’s it then? They get away with a bit of roughing up after murdering him. Killing ’im just because they had the ’ump?’
‘It’s more complicated than that, babe… Anyway you’ll be pleased to know that there are four less of their clubs in Commercial Street.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Petrol bombs.’
‘You didn’t…’ Rosie found herself smiling.
‘Not us… some well-wishers. No one was really harmed… just a bit bruised ’ere and there. He didn’t go as quietly as you think.’
Nodding, Rosie clenched her hands and stared down at the colourful rag mat. ‘I just wish he didn’t ’ave to go like that. If you’d ’ave seen ’is face when they waved that knife… he was as white as a ghost and shaking. He wouldn’t have wanted you to know that.’
Releasing a long-pent-up sigh of grief, Reggie passed a hand across his face, forcing back the tears, searching for something to say to lighten things. ‘I’ve slipped a briefcase under Iris’s bed. The boys had a whip-round…’
‘Thanks,’ Rosie said quietly, finding it difficult to cope with his emotions. To see hardened men who moved in a world that was sometimes violent close to tears, was not easy. ‘Tell ’em thanks…’
‘Forget whores. There’s a good girl. You’re getting yourself upset for nothing. It’s what the Maltese wanted – to smear our reputation. It’s the oldest trick in the book.’
Leaving Rosie to herself Reggie went downstairs, cursing Tommy for splintering off and trying to get a slice of something he knew nothing about. At least Rosie was convinced. That was the main thing.
‘Rosie all right?’ George had seen the two of them go upstairs and he was waiting in the passage. ‘Looked a bit down.’
‘’Course she’s a bit down. What do you expect?’
He pulled George into a quiet corner. ‘I’ve just told ’er that Tommy wasn’t dabbling in Commercial Street. All right?’
‘Right.’ George bit into a sandwich and nodded. ‘I’m taking ’er out next week; that’s OK, innit?’
‘Yeah. Keep ’er away from the clubs though, George. Take ’er to see a nice show up West, or a drive out to a little pub in Kent. You know ’ow precious he was about ’er. Didn’t want her mixing with us lot.’
‘I know… I know. She’ll be all right. I’ll look after ’er.’ He closed one eye and focused the other on Reggie’s face. ‘You ain’t got a soft spot for ’er, ’ave you?’
‘Leave off. I’m twenty years older than she is, old enough to be ’er father.’ He pulled back his broad shoulders. ‘Forty-two next month. Don’t look it, do I?’
‘Nar… take some vitamin pills,’ he said, laughing and backing off. ‘That’ll get rid of them premature lines on your face.’
‘Won’t do much for that line on yours though, will they? Dozy bastard… lettin’ ’em get a blade near your face.’ Reggie pulled himself up to his full height and smiled. ‘I can’t teach you, can I? You won’t listen to your Uncle Reggie.’
‘Bollocks.’ George went off in search of jellied eels and sausage rolls.
‘George!’ Reggie called across the crowded room, ‘Behave yourself next week!’ There was no need to mention Rosie’s name; George knew exactly what he meant.
* * *
By seven o’clock everyone except for five of the boys had gone. Leaving Harriet and Iris, who were more than tipsy, to listen to drunken funny stories. Rosie stayed in the scullery, content with her own company, washing and drying up the stack of plates, cups and saucers. The day had gone as well as it could have under the circumstances and she was looking forward to dropping into her bed. Now that the funeral was over they could get on with their lives again. She had already made up her mind, after speaking to one of the women about Charrington’s brewery and work. A word was going to be put in for her and she was to go in the next day to have a word with the foreman. It wasn’t what she wanted, but the insurance money and cash from the whip-round would soon run out now that there was only her wage and Harriet’s pension coming in.
‘Do you wanna hand, babe?’ George stood at the scullery door, his eyes glazed, his body swaying. Even in that state he was attractive.
As he casually walked across the scullery towards her, she could smell his aftershave, faint though it was. ‘I would rather give these crocks back to the neighbours in one piece.’ She raised an eyebrow and smiled at him. ‘I think you should go and lie on Harriet’s bed and sleep it off.’
‘I’m all right. You should come upstairs. Right laugh it is. Terry the Shoulder is well away… wiv ’is hardship stories.’
‘I’ve heard it all before, George.’
‘Yeah, but it’s still funny. He changes it a bit every time and he’s pissed as a newt. It’s doing your mother the world of good; rocking with laughter she is.’ He leaned on the butlers’ sink and looked into her face, admiring her light-blue eyes.
‘I s’pose Gran’s putting in her pennyworth?’ She turned away, embarrassed at his front. He was making it clear with just one look that he hadn’t come down to the scullery to dry the plates. Wiping her hands on the tea towel, she hung it on the wooden towel rail. ‘Swearing with the best of ’em, if I know Gran.’
‘No…’ he said, touching the ends of her hair and twirling it in his fingers. Still his eyes were on her face. ‘As it happens, she’s been telling us about the Ripper stories. She reckons they’re way offline.’
‘Again? She’s ’aving you all on. She was only ten, what would she remember?’ She just managed to stop the habitual tossing back of her hair. She loved the way he was pushing his fingers through it and lifting strands, brushing his fingertips across the back of her neck. ‘She’s telling pork pies.’
‘Can’t we go for a drink before next week?’ He eased his body a bit closer, keeping a light grip on her hair. ‘I’ve waited long enough to pluck up the courage to ask you out.’ He shrugged and tried to look boyish. It was a waste of time. His high cheekbones and straight nose reminded her of Paul Newman playing tough.
‘Stop blaming Tommy. If you’d ’ave asked him properly he wouldn’t have minded.’
George threw his head back and laughed. ‘You must be joking. I’m telling you…’ He stopped as he caught her eye. ‘Anyway, he was right. You are special. There’s something…’
‘A box-maker girl? What’s special about that?’ She allowed him to pull her closer, until her breasts were pressed against him and he was gently kissing her neck. ‘Someone might come in…’
‘We’re not doing anything wrong.’ His breath hot on her neck, he brushed more kisses across her cheek and then touched his lips against hers. Aware that there was whisky on his breath, he lifted his mouth from hers and cupped her face. ‘Sorry… booze and cigarettes… can’t be very nice…’ Embarrassed that he might hear the pounding inside her chest or feel her pulsating veins, she stepped back. ‘We’d best go upstairs and join the others.’
‘All right, but before we go, I just want to say – and it’s not the drink talking – I really do like you… I’m not out for what I can get.’
‘Just as well then – ’cos I’m not a tart.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘I think you do know that. Come on.’
Once she was back in the living room with the others, Rosie found herself laughing at Terry who was telling his laborious but funny stories. Sitting on the floor, leaning against an armchair, nudging her head against her gran’s knee, she caught her mother’s eye. ‘All right, Rose?’
‘Yeah… I’m OK.’ She lowered her eyes to the floor and wished that Iris would stop trying to be nice to her. It was too late for all that. Much too late.
Chapter 3
The days that followed the funeral turned out to be the worst days of Rosie’s life, and try as she would she could not blank out the reality – that Tommy was never going to walk in through the door again; that she would never hear the familiar sound of his whistling when he was spruced up ready to go out for the evening. The finality of it all and the silence that filled the house made her want to sleep until the spring came round, when she could wake to a new day and face life without her brother being there for her.
Since the day of the killing, up until the day he was buried, there had been a nonstop stream of visitors to the house. If it wasn’t family friends at the door it was the police, intent on drawing information from them. The coroner’s report had stated that the fatal knife wound had been inflicted seconds before death, and the detective inspector handling the case was a persistent man. He had badgered and bullied Rosie, Iris and Harriet one by one and, one by one, they had insisted that Tommy came home on that Saturday in the state they found him, each of them murmuring the same practised words over and over – street-gang warfare.
Reggie had briefed them on what they were to say before he had allowed them to call in the police, adamant that justice through the legal channels would only mean more shedding of family blood. After tears, tantrums and straight talking, Rosie and Iris had finally given in, agreeing that Reggie was right and that Tommy wouldn’t have wanted a hair on any of their heads to be harmed, especially since the trouble had been caused by himself and the darker side of the life he had led. They could see the sense in Reggie’s reasoning and had agreed to go along with him, spending precious time collaborating their stories, going over and over his arrival home that day down to every last detail, every step, until it was etched in their brains as if it had really happened that way.
One saving grace for Rosie had been George. She had had her doubts about him from the day of the funeral when he made his first move. She had thought at the time that the flattery and compliments he had thrown her way had been shallow. That he had seen an opening, now that Tommy was no longer there to shield her from flirts, and had been quick to move in with his technique for getting the girl. But she had been wrong. Their first date, when he took her out for a candlelit dinner, had been wonderful and George had proved to be not only a perfect gentleman but a shy one. The restaurant he had chosen, Salvo Jure in Brushfield Street on the edge of Spitalfields fruit market, with its low lighting and soft blues music, was the ideal setting in which they could get to know each other properly. After the meal and wine, when they were enjoying good Italian coffee, George had confessed that he really had had a soft spot for her for a very long time.
When he finally said goodnight to Rosie, she was relieved that, instead of waiting to be asked in, in the hopes of sharing the sofa with her in the best room, he had kissed her lightly on the cheek before asking if he could see her again. It was Rosie who took things a little further by kissing him on the lips, and she had no regrets. That first kiss had been magic and had said more than a thousand words could have done.
* * *
Watching her gran as she sat in front of the electric fire in her room, Rosie cleared her throat to make her presence known without making the old woman jump. She had been very edgy of late. Harriet raised her eyes from the photograph at which she had been gazing, and stared into the imitation orange flames that flickered in the darkened room. She had been going through her cardboard box of old snapshots, looking for any which had been taken when her grandson was a boy. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she mumbled quietly to herself, unaware that Rosie was standing in the doorway.
‘Gran? Why’re you sitting in the dark?’
Rubbing her eyes with her fingertips, Harriet turned slowly and peered up at her. ‘It’s not dark, is it?’
‘’Course it is!’ She switched on the light. ‘It’s crept up on yer. It’s a wonder you could see anything.’ She leaned over her gran and looked at the photograph in her hand. ‘I ’aven’t seen that one before. Who is it?’
‘Sod electricity,’ Harriet grumbled, slipping the faded picture back inside her box and shielding her eyes from the sudden glare. ‘How’d you get on then? Bit frosty were they – the women?’ She carefully fitted the cardboard lid back on and lowered her box to the floor. ‘First day anywhere’s not all it should be. The brewery’s no different. Give you stick, did they?’
‘It was OK. Bit different from the box factory. Not many laughs. Well… not for me, anyway.’ She sat in the fireside chair opposite her gran. ‘Didn’t know a soul. I kept expecting one of my mates to appear with a bit of factory gossip.’
Quietly laughing, Harriet assured her that in a fortnight or so she would be coming into that same room with stories to make a straw curl. ‘Work it out for yourself,’ she said, spreading her bony hands in front of the glowing bars and rubbing them together. ‘How many do Charrington’s employ compared to the box factory?’
