The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Frankie grasped the door handle, then thought better of it. He went around the side of the Bark instead, down the steps to the river, and then up into the kitchen by way of the basement stairs. Desi was there, washing glasses and stirring a pot of swill he called soup.

  "All right, Des?"

  "Aye, Frankie. Yourself?"

  "Fine, thanks. What's up?"

  "The guv's in the shit with Gem."

  Frankie knew that Sid had finished with Gemma. He should've been surprised, but he wasn't. Nothing Sid did surprised him now.

  He walked over to the door that separated the kitchen from the taproom and looked through its small, grimy window. Sid was seated by the windows, looking out at the river. Gemma was pacing back and forth. Sid might have finished with her, but she hadn't finished with him. She held a handkerchief. Her eyes were red.

  "Why, Sid? Just tell me why."

  "Gemma, please. We've been through all this."

  "There's someone else, isn't there? Who is she?"

  "There's no one else."

  "You're a liar!" Gemma shouted. There was a loud crash.

  "Bloody hell," Desi muttered. "Tell me that wasn't me gran's blue platter."

  "I won't," Frankie said.

  "Does she kiss you like I did, Sid? Does she fuck you like I did?"

  "I think it's time we got you home, Gem."

  "I'm not going anywhere. Not till you tell me the truth. You said you'd never fallen in love. You said you never would. But you have, haven't you?"

  Sid made no reply.

  "I thought so." It was quiet for a few seconds, then Gemma spoke again. "Hard thing of it is, it's not with me."

  Desi shook his head. "Can't understand for the life of me why he broke it off with her," he said, salting his soup. "I'd never kick a woman like that out of my bed. Something's not right."

  "Nothing's right, Des. Not anymore."

  "You can say that again. What are you doing here anyway, Frankie? Come to eat, have you?"

  Not bloody likely, Frankie thought, glancing at the soup pot. "Came to talk to the guv," he said.

  "About what?"

  "Fucking Madden. Fucking Ko. And the fucking Italians."

  Des nodded. "Good. Madden's taking some diabolical liberties."

  "Too right, he is."

  Big Billy Madden was doing things he wouldn't have dared to do even a month ago. Throwing his weight around in Whitechapel pubs and making his presence felt along the waterfront. Someone had knocked off Butler's Wharf, done a ship in St. Katherine's Dock, and robbed a chandler's on Wap-ping High Street. It was Madden, Frankie's gut told him so. The man was like a shark scenting blood in the water. Sid needed to deal with him. Now.

  Madden had sent a message to Frankie through Ding Dong just last week that his offer was still open. Frankie had sent Del packing with a few choice words and a toe up his arse. Billy Madden didn't understand. It wasn't a job he wanted. If that was all he was after, he could work for any bleeder who paid him. It wasn't about the money. Well, not entirely. It was about the Stronghold. Planning it, doing it, and getting away with it. It was about owning East London. Being a prince of the city. It was about the life. The brotherhood. Love of a kind. And loyalty. It was about Sid.

  There was another loud outburst from Gemma.

  Frankie saw Sid stand and put on his jacket. Gemma tried to stop him leaving. Next thing, Frankie heard the front door open and close.

  "Bloody great," he said. "The guv's legged it and stuck us with Gem."

  "Poor lass. Go get her a drink, will you? I have to put the finishing touches on me soup."

  Frankie wondered what those touches might be--a sprinkling of black beetle? A handful of rat feet? Desi's soup looked like it belonged in a caul-dron. Frankie pushed open the kitchen door and walked into the taproom. He found Gemma standing by the bar.

  "Here, Gem, what's all this, then?" he said. "Trouble with the guv?"

  "You heard us?"

  "Hard not to."

  "I'd hoped we could talk. Hoped I could get him back..." Her words trailed away.

  "How about a drink? Help take the pain away."

  "Gin."

  "I'm sure it'll blow over, whatever it is."

  Gemma gave a bitter laugh. "It won't. He's found someone else."

  "Aw, Gem. He's a bloke, ain't he? He'll come back. We always do." Frankie reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle. He uncorked it, filled a short glass, and pushed it toward her.

  "Better pour yourself one, too, mate," she said, throwing hers back.

  "Me? What for?"

  She looked at him pityingly. "Crikey, Frankie, you aren't half stupid."

  "Steady on! I know you're upset and all, but--"

  "Can't you see what's happening? He's leaving."

  "Looks like he's already left, luv."

  "Not just me. Us. You. The lads. This place. East London. The life."

  "Bollocks," Frankie said, but a sliver of fear needled at his heart.

  Gemma picked up the bottle and poured herself another drink. She swallowed a mouthful, then said, "You love him, too, don't you? More than I ever did. Doesn't matter, though. He'll leave you as well."

  "Shut it, Gem," Frankie growled.

  Gemma laughed. "Actually, I'm wrong. He won't leave. He can't. He's already gone."

  "I said, Shut it!" Frankie yelled, banging the gin bottle on the bar.

  Gemma finished her drink, lifting the glass to her lips with a shaking hand. Frankie was glad she'd stopped talking. He didn't want to hear it, couldn't bear to hear it, because deep down he knew she was right. Sid had always been a bit of a Robin Hood, giving the dosh in his pocket to every sorry tosser who asked, but lately he'd become worse. Ever since he'd met the lady doctor. First, he'd helped her get a box of rubber johnnies and didn't even take any money off her for them. Then he'd gone all soft over the old tart at the Taj who'd topped herself. And then he'd given the doctor money to open some kind of poxy clinic--a lot of money.

  And who knew what he was doing now? Even if he'd found himself a new doxie, as Gemma seemed to think, Frankie knew he'd never let any woman interfere with business. But something was. Something was keeping him away. He was letting the Firm go straight to hell. And letting all of them go with it.

  Frankie knew he had to do something, but what? He watched Gemma throw her third glass of gin back, eyes closed, and had a vision of himself sitting here doing the same after Sid walked out and left him to the tender mercies of Big Billy Madden, Nicky Barrecca, and whoever else wanted a piece of the East End.

  Without warning, he snatched her glass away. "Come on," he said.

  "Christ, Frankie, I was drinking that!"

  "Get your things. We're leaving."

  "Why? Where are we going?"

  Frankie grabbed Gemma's coat, her bag, and her arm. "To find out where Sid Malone spends all his time."

  Chapter 52

  "The boxes are here, Joe! Get up!"

  Joe Bristow opened his bleary eyes. It was dark. And noisy. It smelled odd. Of wood and books. For a moment he didn't know where he was. Then he remembered--the schoolhouse on Brick Lane. It was being used as a polling station. Today was polling day. He lifted his weary head off a hard wooden desktop.

  "Wake up, will you?"

  His brother was standing in the doorway of the empty classroom where Joe had gone to collapse.

  "What time is it, Jimmy?" he rasped.

  "Half nine. The first ballot boxes have arrived! Get up, you lazy bollocks! They're counting!"

  Joe put his head back down and closed his eyes. He'd never known such deep exhaustion. He'd been out canvassing for the last two days--not stop-ping to sleep, barely eating. He felt as if he'd been in every public house, every union building, every wharf and factory in East London. His throat was so raw, he could barely speak.

  His supporters felt he was leading over his Liberal and Tory rivals and they'd urged him to press his advantage. Joe had, but he felt far from con?-d
ent about his chances. Lambert and Lytton were experienced politicians; he was not. In addition, Lytton was an incumbent and those were notori-ously hard to beat.

  Freddie was downstairs in the schoolhouse's small assembly room right now together with Dickie Lambert, the ballot counters, the Returning Officer, supporters, and various members of the press. Joe knew he should be downstairs, too.

  Just a few more hours, he told himself. All he had to do was watch and wait while the ballots were counted and then congratulate Freddie. After that, he could go home and sleep.

  No, not home, he thought, with a sudden ache. Home was 94 Grosvenor Square, where Fiona and Katie lived. Where he didn't live. Not anymore. It had been more than a month since he'd left Fiona but he still forgot. Every morning he woke up in his bed at the Coburg thinking he was in his real bed, his and Fiona's. And then he would open his eyes and see the hotel's flocked wallpaper, the strange crimson curtains, his clothes on the floor-- and he would remember that he had given her a choice between himself and her brother, a choice she had refused to make.

  And so they were in limbo. They barely spoke. She made sure she was out of the house when he came to see Katie. He made sure he left before she returned. Last week, though, he'd lost track of the time and had stayed too long. She'd come into the hall just as he was leaving. She'd nodded at him wordlessly and moved off toward the stairs, but he'd caught her wrist and stopped her.

  "I miss you," he'd said. "And I love you."

  "Then why did you leave me?"

  "You know why. There are some fights you can't win, Fiona. Even you."

  "I can try, damn it!" she said, wrenching free of his grip.

  "What will it take, Fee? What does Sid Malone have to do to make you give up on him? Me warehouse is gone. Alf's dead. You were almost killed. Your attacker was killed. What will satisfy you? Seeing him kill someone himself?"

  She had stalked off then, furious. Her anger, combined with her stub-bornness, would not let her back down. Not yet, at any rate. But soon, he hoped, for he hated living apart from her, hated being at odds with her. She needed him, he knew she did. And he certainly needed her. Everything he did felt pointless without her by his side. He was weary in his body and weary in his heart. It had been a hard few weeks, a hard campaign, a hard fight.

  And now he wondered if it had all been for nothing. Would anything change because of what he'd done? If Lytton won, would he follow through on his promises? Joe didn't know. He didn't know anything any-more, other than that he wanted to go home. To be welcomed by his wife.

  To crawl into bed beside her. To tell her everything that had happened. Just the two of them talking in the dark. He wanted to make love to her and fall asleep in her arms. Instead, he fell asleep on the hard desk again. It was dark in the room and very late when he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him violently.

  "Joe, you tosser, get up!" a voice bellowed.

  "Jesus Christ, Jimmy, give me a minute, will you? I'm shagged," he said groggily.

  "No! You have to come downstairs. Right now! It's finished, Joe. It's over."

  Joe raised his head. He fumbled in his jacket pocket. "Hold on a mo'. I've got me concession speech here somewhere. Lytton won, did he?"

  "No, he didn't."

  "You're joking! It's Lambert? Lambert's the new MP?"

  Jimmy beamed at him. "No, you silly bugger. You are!"

  Joe stared at him, stunned and speechless.

  John Burns, a Labour leader and an adviser to Joe throughout his cam-paign, burst into the room. "I've just had a telegram!" he shouted. "Keir Hardie's taken Merthyr Tydfil and Richard Bell's won Derby. That's three victories for the new Labour Party!" he crowed.

  "Three?" Joe said. How could Burns be excited about three bloody seats? The Tories and Liberals had undoubtedly won hundreds between them.

  "Three's a start, lad. In the last government we had only one seat. We've tripled our presence! Pebbles can start avalanches, you know. Labour's out of the gate and on its way! Today, three. Next time, thirty, and the time after that, three hundred!"

  "Crikey, Joe, get up, will you?" Jimmy said.

  Joe struggled to his feet.

  "We've got reporters downstairs," Burns said. "They want a speech. Make it a good one. Photographs, too. Smarten yourself up, lad. I'll tell them you'll be down in a few minutes."

  As Jimmy and John trotted back downstairs, Joe straightened his tie and raked his fingers through his hair. He tucked his shirt into his trousers and buttoned his jacket. A bath and a change of clothes would have been ideal, but this would have to do.

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, preparing himself for what was ahead. Excitement and emotion began to replace the weariness he'd felt. He realized that he'd won. He'd actually won. He was an MP now, part of something much bigger than himself, and he knew that after tonight he would never be the same man again. But it was more than that. He sensed that his city, his entire country, would never be the same again. There would be celebrations tonight--here, in East London. In a valley in South Wales. In a mill town in the Midlands. Burns was right. This was the start of something. The Tories, the Liberals they'd all courted the working man, they'd taken his vote, and they'd given him nothing in return. Now workers would have a voice--a small voice, yes, but a voice. Someone would speak for them, tell their story. Someone would fight for them in Westminster.

  It was a victory, at once small and monumental, and for Joe it was bittersweet. He was proud, excited, beyond happy, but he wished Fiona were here. He wanted to share this with her, just as they had always shared everything else. He wanted to feel her arms around him, her hand in his. He wanted to see her eyes shining ...for him.

  This had to stop. They had to get back together.

  He knew what to do. He would go to see Sid Malone himself. He would go, not as Sid's brother-in-law, but as the new MP. He would go alone--no police--and he would call a truce. They would talk. And he would warn Sid what lay ahead if he did not shut up shop. He had no idea if he'd suc-ceed or not, but he knew that the gesture alone would show Fiona that he understood her, that he cared. He would try--for her.

  Joe opened his eyes and headed downstairs. There was a feeling of excitement in the polling room. Election workers were chattering madly. Members of the press scribbled and smoked and looked at their watches. Freddie Lytton, haggard and gaunt, was talking to them, trying to put a brave face on defeat. Dickie Lambert had already left.

  Joe was spotted immediately.

  "Mr. Bristow! Can you give us a statement, sir? Mr. Bristow, over here! Mr. Bristow, can you hold it right there? I need a photo."

  Joe first went to Freddie and shook his hand. Freddie gave him a tired smile and congratulated him.

  "Mr. Bristow, have you a speech?" a reporter shouted. "Any words?"

  Joe turned to them. As he did, he caught a glimpse out of the school's open doors to the street beyond. Men stood in it. His supporters. Now his constituents. Working men who'd been standing there in the cold for hours, who faced an early start in the morning.

  "Aye, gentlemen," he said. "I've some words. But they're for them." He hooked his thumb in the direction of the door. "For the people who just made me their MP. You're welcome to join me outside if you want to hear what I have to say."

  John Burns heard him. He smiled, then hurried out ahead of him.

  "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you the Honorable Member for Tower Hamlets--Mr. Joseph Bristow!"

  For a split second there was a shocked silence and then a deafening cheer went up. It grew, rolling down Brick Lane, not stopping. Hats went up in the air. Grown men hugged one another like children. Some of them danced. Lights went on in houses, doors and windows opened, people came out and stood on their steps in their night clothes, and still it didn't stop. Little kids rubbed their bleary eyes and bawled. Men opened bottles of beer and toasted one another. Housewives banged pots together. And still it didn't stop.

  Joe finally held up his hands,
trying to quiet them, trying to speak, but they paid him no attention. He turned to Burns. The man was grinning from ear to ear.

  "See that, lad?" he shouted, clapping him on the back. "Know what it's called? Hope."

  Chapter 53

  "Holy cow, Albie, that's Norman Collie!" Seamie said.

  "Where?" Albert Alden asked.

  "There! Halfway up the steps, hands in his pockets. See him?"