by Beezy Marsh
Worse than that, what if she’d seen through my plan and known the truth about Molly all along? What if she was waiting for me in the stairwell with Mrs Tibbs at the ready? I tripped over myself getting into a beautiful silk evening dress as I worried about that and Miss Hunter shot me a dirty look: ‘Do please be careful with the gowns, girls!’
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, fiddling with the huge velvet bow at the bust, as I pulled a fox fur around my shoulders. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Gypsy was resplendent in an olive-green silk dress, buttoned all the way up the front and white calfskin gloves. The Partridges and Em managed to hoick themselves into the most stunning beaded gold tulle evening gowns, leaving the professional models’ noses out of joint, because they were supposed to be wearing them.
‘Right, this is it,’ I whispered to them. ‘Just sneak straight out after you’ve done your turn.’
‘But where’s Alice?’ said Em. ‘And what about you?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll think of something,’ I said.
The pianist struck up a chord and we were just stepping out for our final walk, to applause, when a drunk old flower seller staggered into the crowd, knocking over a few chairs, singing at the top of her voice: ‘My old man, said follow the van…’
As people scrambled out of her way, shouting with indignation, she tipped up the brim of hat and gave me a wink.
My heart was thumping, ten to the dozen as I recognized the glint in her emerald-green eyes.
It was Alice Diamond.
Chapter Thirty-Two
ALICE
Holborn, London, March 1947
Half a crown!
I had to pay Old Lizzie Lumps the flower seller half a bleeding crown to part with her piss-stinking skirt and moth-eaten old shawl. She charged me sixpence extra for the battered straw hat, and some bunches of lucky lavender that were little more than dried twigs. It was robbery, plain and simple. She could have made it as a thief – if only she hadn’t been so fond of the bottle.
As I looked around at the horror-stricken faces of the well-to-do ladies assembled in the womenswear department of Gamages, I decided to put on a bit of a show of my own, not only to give my girls a chance to get away, but just for the hell of it.
It was easy for me to make a proper nuisance of myself, bothering the posh folk: ‘Oh, buy my lovely flowers! Go on! Spare some coins. Have a care for an old lady!’
The smell of my clothing alone had them running for cover. You’d have thought a German bomb was about to explode in their midst, so it tickled me pink to go after them as they scrambled to get out of my path.
And that’s when I saw him.
Billy Sullivan was sitting in the front row, looking like he owned the place. I recognised the cut of his forty-guinea suit, the crisp whiteness of his starched collar, his silk tie from Bond Street and the entitled shine of his hand-made leather shoes.
Out of the corner of my eye, as I walloped that manager Miss Hunter away with my cane, I spotted a cozzer walking towards Billy. It was that plain clothes fella I’d had a tussle with, in the lift at Derry and Tom’s.
Now, it might have just been a co-incidence, but I was beginning to think it was a bit strange that he turned up like a bad smell wherever I went. And, in fact, wherever Nell went too. What were the chances of that?
Billy turned to look over his shoulder, to see what all the fuss was about, but he didn’t budge. He was a man who could handle himself and he wasn’t going to let a bit of a fracas with a drunken old tramp like me spoil his afternoon, was he?
The cozzer quickened his pace and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. The look of grim determination on his face and the way he was making a beeline for Billy made me realise he wasn’t the least bit bothered by me, an old gal who was three sheets to the wind and being rowdy in a posh shop.
Sometimes in this game, you have to make a split-second decision. It’s hard to explain that to mugs who have never stolen anything in their lives, but you get to read a situation and you know when to take a chance. My brother taught me that when we were kids growing up in the Seven Dials and I watched him swizz the punters out of pennies in his card tricks.
Whatever he had on Billy Sullivan, the cozzer was cock-sure of it because he marched towards him like he was judge, jury and executioner, all rolled into one.
The thought that this cozzer was going to put Billy Sullivan behind bars might have been enough for some people who’ve been cheated by him. But I got no satisfaction from that.
Nell had brought it home to me that what I had against Billy was personal in a way few could understand. The kind of justice I was interested was meted out on the streets, by people who weren’t born with a silver spoon in their mouth; who’d had to claw their way up from the gutter, simply to survive.
Blood is thicker than water, like she said. And Mrs Tibbs was screaming at me to get to know him better. So, who was I to deny her?
With the brim of my hat low over my eyes, I pulled her out of my pocket and flicked her open. Mrs Tibbs glinted under the electric lights. It was as if she was drawing breath for the first time in her life.
And for the first time in mine, since I was a girl, I forgot all about The Forty Thieves and the Hoisters’ Code and what I had come here for.
I was just inches away from his broad shoulders; I could smell his expensive aftershave and see the neat line where the barber had clipped his jet-black hair at the nape of his lovely neck.
‘Wotcha, Lim,’ I murmured.
He span around to face me and before he knew what was happening, Mrs Tibbs was scoring her way down his cheek, opening him up from just below his eye to his chin, blood spurting everywhere. She was lightening quick. She did a proper number on him; oh, she was unstoppable, just as I knew she would be. She went in hard and fast and cut deep.
Somewhere over the other side of the room, a woman screamed and another fainted at the sight of so much blood.
Billy clutched his hand to his lacerated face, his mouth rounding in horror and disbelief, as the cozzer wrestled me to the floor, knocking Mrs Tibbs out of my hand. She skittered away from my grasp.
I heard a madcap laugh.
‘You bitch,’ yelled Billy, throwing himself at me, blood spurting all over the place. Out of nowhere, a mob of plain clothes policemen piled in, and he was cuffed.
‘That looks nasty,’ said Detective Sgt Hart, his eyes shining with glee, as he pulled Billy to his feet, with drops of crimson spattering all over the floor. ‘I think you might need a few stitches. It could leave a nasty scar.’
‘Get your hands off me,’ said Billy, shaking with rage. ‘I am a respectable businessman. I will have your job for this. I’ll have you know I’m a friend of the Chief Constable.’
Detective Sgt Hart smiled: ‘William Sullivan, I am arresting you for demanding money with menaces, bribery and corruption.’
I tussled a bit with a young cozzer, just to make him feel brave, but I was giggling so much I couldn’t put up much of a fight.
As I was led away to the police station, Billy was shouting one word and one word only at the top of his voice.
I’d waited decades but it was worth it to hear my brother yelling so loudly that the whole of London town could hear it.
‘Alice!’
EPILOGUE
NELL
Elephant and Castle, London, July 1948
She’s so beautiful, sleeping soundly in her cot.
My little girl’s fingers curl around mine as she dozes in the late afternoon.
You could have knocked me down with a feather when I found out I was in the family way, but this time I was ready for motherhood, because I already had a nice flat. Alice Diamond didn’t have much use for it anymore after she got herself arrested. The Forty Thieves look on me as their Queen now, so it was only fitting that I moved into her old drum.
When I wrote to Jimmy in Wandsworth Jail to tell him my news, he was really made up about the baby. We decided to call her Ruby, j
ust like my favourite necklace, and she came into the world just in time for Christmas 1947. It was the best present ever.
Jimmy’s just about bursting with pride for his daughter. He wants to know every little detail about her life, and he writes to me at least once a week. Neither of us can forget about our firstborn, Joseph. Truthfully, it don’t get any easier, but when we speak of him, we like to think he’s happy with that well-to-do family, getting the best of everything. I send him a mother’s love every night before my head hits the pillow and hope that somehow, through the skies over London, it reaches him.
I have high hopes for my Ruby. I felt her first kicks when I was shoving a few blouses down my drawers in Marshall and Snellgrove, in Oxford Street. I plan to teach her everything I’ve learned, to make sure she stays out of trouble. I was hoisting right up to the birth because having a bump makes it so much easier to clout things and people are less suspicious of you.
Jimmy got a three-year stretch for the chivving of Alf White, which all the Chaps in Soho said could have been a lot worse. I made sure he had his best suit, all neatly pressed, when he stood in the dock and he looked so handsome as he blew me a kiss when they took him down after sentencing. My Jimmy only has to look at me to make my heart skip a beat, even if it’s across a prison table at visiting time. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder and it has in my case, but I don’t tell him that too often in case he starts taking it for granted.
A little bird told me he’ll get out early for good behaviour and I’m pleased about that because we have got a lot of lost time to make up for. Meanwhile, he’s got himself a nice job as a prison barber, because it turns out he’s quite good with a razor, after all.
Jimmy wants to make an honest woman of me when he gets out but I told him there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening, because I am as bent as a nine-bob note and proud of it. And anyway, I have already got more diamond rings than I know what to do with. As luck would have it, Alice left her jewellery behind when she disguised herself as a flower seller that day in Gamages and her rings fit me just perfectly. So, now I’ve got a nice row of diamonds, which I can use as a knuckle duster whenever the need arises.
The girl I was before will always fancy the pants off Jimmy but the woman I am now has got her head screwed on right and she don’t care one jot about respectability and wedlock. Those things are for mugs. Being Queen of Thieves means I’m married to the job in some ways, and I quite like that.
Funny, but I find everyone round Queen’s Buildings is always very polite to me and I’ve never heard even a whisper of malice about the fact that I haven’t made it up the aisle.
I never feel lonely because Iris pops around to babysit when I need to go out do some shopping up West. And my girls, The Forty Thieves, keep me company, coming and going all day long. Some days it’s like Piccadilly Circus in here and I wish I had one of those revolving doors like they do in Selfridges.
Nobody talks about Alice Diamond anymore, not after she was so disloyal to the gang that day in Gamages. She forgot all about us and selfishly went off and got herself arrested. The way she striped Billy Sullivan’s face like that! Anyone would have thought she was trying to start a gangland war. It was very unwise. Luckily, I was able to smooth things over with Albert Rossi and the rest of the Chaps. Turns out it was a family feud and had nothing to do with The Forty Thieves. Just fancy that!
I went to see her in court after she was charged with assault. She was still dressed as a flower seller, glaring at me from the dock, as the judge handed her a hefty sentence for causing such a public outrage.
None of the girls could understand why she did it, but I told them sometimes people bear grudges, and it eats them up and drives them mad. Blood is thicker than water as the old saying goes and being Billy Sullivan’s sister must have made her forget her loyalty to the gang and lose her marbles. Luckily, I was on hand to get us all out of that shop and to safety, with our loot.
The Forty Thieves were made up about the amount we hoisted and we still chuckle about it down the pub. When Miss Hunter came to do the stock check, she found about half a dozen of Mr Dior’s finest gowns had gone walkabout.
I’d like to have been a fly on the wall for the conversation when she rang Paris. I expect they taught her a few words of French she wasn’t too familiar with.
So, I’ve made a few other changes to the gang. It ain’t easy being Queen and sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Molly was never the same after her unfortunate accident, you see.
She can’t really remember what happened, other than she was hit on the back of the head, but what with that and the booze, I had to let her go. It was a bit like putting down a horse when it’s only fit for the knacker’s yard. We were all glad to see the back of her; she’d become a bit of an embarrassment. Last I heard, she was working as a prostitute’s madam up in one of those rat-infested hotels up in Waterloo. Shame, really.
Meanwhile, I’ve caused a bit of a stir in Soho by opening my own club. They say gangland’s a man’s world, but times are changing, aren’t they?
The Windsor got shut down when Billy Sullivan was arrested and all the girls would have been out of work, so I put forward a plan to reopen it as a new place, really classy, for dinner and dancing. I had the cash that Jimmy left me, and I put it into the business, which has made a fabulous return. Soho has never been busier.
Lord Dockworth volunteered to be my guarantor, after I had a lovely little chat with him and his wife about The Lucky Seven gambling club. I did so enjoy taking afternoon tea with them in Mayfair. They were utterly charming, which was quite unexpected, although from the look on Lady Dockworth’s face, I think she surprised herself with how polite she could be to me when she made a bit of an effort.
Thanks to Lord Dockworth, the magistrates were prepared to overlook my one conviction for shoplifting, as the folly of a misspent youth. So, I got my licence and had the club fitted out nicely and we’re one of the top nightspots in Soho these days.
Gypsy is my manageress. Turns out she’s got a good head for figures, but I do have to watch how much she spends on shoes. I kept Lou the barman on as well as Alma and the other dancers, because familiar faces are good for business, aren’t they? Lou has just about got over the shock of having me as his boss, but if he weren’t grumpy then I think he’d be sickening for something.
There’s never any trouble at the Silver Slipper because the Chaps all look out for me, as Jimmy the Razor’s girl. Albert Rossi stuck a ring on Gypsy’s finger, but he keeps coming up with excuses as to why they will have to delay the wedding. He’s yet to tell her the truth; that he’s already got a missus and three kids up in Clerkenwell, but knowing Gypsy, she’ll forgive him for that.
The fall-out from Billy Sullivan’s corruption trial was monumental. Half the London police force got booted out, with Billy’s accounts ledger for evidence. The cozzer who nailed him is Detective Chief Inspector these days but if he ever pops by my club, I tell him he still has to pay his drinks bill, just like any other punter. I don’t want him getting ideas above his station, even if he is very good-looking for a policeman.
And Billy Sullivan?
Well, he jumped bail from hospital after he had thirty stitches in his face and never stood trial. Some say he got out of the country on a private airplane. Others say Billy was last seen in South Africa, where he’s running a diamond mine.
I expect in time, people will forget all about Billy Sullivan and he’ll be just another one of those gangland legends, who fellas talk about over their pints in the darkest corners of the pub, reliving his wicked deeds in hushed tones.
Those of us who knew him personally might struggle to find a kind word to say about him.
Although, I must say, sometimes when I hold my Ruby and she gazes up at me with a familiar look, I remember him, fondly.
ALICE
Holloway, London, July 1948
Now, let’s be honest.
It’s been a while sin
ce I last set foot in the Holloway Hotel, and I am quite pleased with what they’ve done with the place.
The walls are painted cream and brown and those of us staying at His Majesty’s Pleasure are allowed to put pictures up in our cells and add a few homely touches. The bed is a bed, with a mattress, and not just a board that you have to put up during the day, like it was when I was last here. It’s altogether a nicer experience for us guests, especially those of us facing a long stretch.
The prison clock bashes out the hour just the same as it always did, echoing up the stairwells, but I find that reassuring as I count down the days until I get my liberty.
And the cocoa! Well, that is just as delicious as back in the old days before the war. I got myself a nice little job in the library, on account of the fact that I caught that no-good dipper Joan from the laundry selling ciggies and trying force herself on the younger ones, the dirty cow.
The warder Miss Fanshawe and me go back a long way, you see, so she was all ears. I knew her when she was little more than a girl, starting out on her first job here, and I helped her get a foot on the ladder for promotion, by maintaining a sense of order in the prison. Those little favours last a lifetime.
I had a lovely welcome from all the prisoners who found it in the goodness of their hearts to share their rations with me and make sure I didn’t have to do much heavy work, because of my legs, which are a constant trouble these days. Funny that I can still skip up the stairs when the warders ain’t watching but I feel a bit of a limp coming on whenever I see the Governor.
I was given extra blankets and the softest pillows, and I barely had to say a word to get them. It’s nice when you don’t have to ask twice.
I’ve been offered a nice comfy stay in the hospital wing if I feel the need for extra rest and I may take old Fanshawe up on that but for now, being right here, in the heart of the prison, is where I truly belong.