The Ladykiller

by Martina Cole

  ‘Hello, Lily.’ George stood on the step smiling at her.

  ‘Oh . . . This is a surprise.’

  He walked into the spacious hall.

  ‘Where’s Elaine?’

  George visiting was a shock, but George without Elaine was an even bigger one.

  ‘Oh, she’s at work. I had a bit of time and I thought, I know, I’ll go and visit poor Mother.’

  Lily’s face froze. Who on earth in their right mind would visit Nancy Markham, correction Markowitz, if they didn’t have to?

  Nancy’s voice thundered from the front room.

  ‘Lily, who is it? Who’s knocking the bloody door down?’

  She wished that the caller had been the young Rabbi; she’d have loved Nancy to drop her guard in front of him.

  The bell began to ring furiously and George gestured with his head to the door on his right.

  ‘I take it she’s in there?’

  He walked into the room.

  ‘Hello, Mother.’ His voice was meek once more. His mother always had that effect on him.

  Nancy recovered her equilibrium fast.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’

  George dutifully kissed her cheek. He could smell her lavender perfume and face powder.

  ‘I thought I’d give you a little visit, see how you were faring.’

  She snorted. ‘I’m not ready for the knacker’s yard yet, me boy, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  She rang the bell furiously again. George watched her large hand grasping the wooden handle and lifting it up over her shoulder then swinging it down towards the floor.

  ‘Lily, bring in a pot of fresh tea.’ They heard her scuffling across the hall from the kitchen. ‘And make sure it’s stronger than that gnat’s piss you made earlier,’ Nancy called.

  She settled herself once more into her chair. So her son had decided to visit her, had he? A nasty smile played on her lips.

  ‘Where’s Ten Ton Tessie today?’

  George smirked. She could be cruel, could his mother.

  ‘Elaine’s working, Mother.’

  He sat himself down on the settee and glanced around the room. It really was lovely; high-ceilinged, it still had the original ornamental cornice and ceiling roses.

  ‘She wouldn’t have come anyway.’

  George dragged his eyes from the ceiling. ‘Who?’

  ‘Elaine, of course. Who’d you think?’ Nancy patted her outrageous orange hair. ‘So what brings you here anyway?’

  ‘Mother, I only came to say hello.’

  ‘Tripe. You’ve never visited me before. You’re in some kind of trouble.’

  ‘What kind of trouble could I be in?’ George’s voice was low.

  Nancy shrugged. ‘How should I know? Have you done something wrong, Georgie boy? You can always tell me, you know.’ Her voice became confidential and wheedling.

  George surveyed her and was surprised to find that his fear of her seemed to have diminished today. Normally her bullying voice would leave him a bundle of nerves, her malevolent expression would set his heart galloping in his chest, but today, all she did was make him want to laugh at her.

  ‘Do you ever hear from Edith, Mother?’

  He felt the temperature in the room drop to freezing point and continued, ‘I hear from her sporadically. She’s doing awfully well, you know.’

  He watched his mother’s mouth set in a grim line. He was enjoying himself.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ It was an accusation.

  ‘I’m retiring.’

  ‘Huh! Being made redundant more like. Elaine told Mouth Almighty and she told me.’ She poked herself in the chest with a pudgy finger.

  George felt his confidence waning.

  ‘They didn’t want you any more, that’s the truth of it. How old are you now? Fifty-one . . . fifty-two. You’re over the hill, my boy.’

  George was getting upset. Why had he come here? He knew what would happen, what always happened. He clenched his fists. Nancy was warming to her theme.

  ‘You’ve never had what it takes, Georgie. You never even had any friends . . .’

  ‘I have got friends. Lots of friends, Mother. I was out with my friends last night. I do wish you wouldn’t always try and upset me. You’re such a bitter pill, Mother, no wonder no one ever visits you. How the hell Joseph and Lily put up with you I don’t know.’

  His sister-in-law was walking into the room with the tea tray when he said the last part and she nearly dropped the whole lot with fright.

  ‘What did you say?’ Nancy’s voice was like granite.

  But George was too far gone now.

  ‘You heard me, Mother, you’ve got ears like an elephant’s. Always flapping around, listening to everything. ’ He spied the white-faced Lilian with the tray and forced himself to smile.

  ‘Here, let me help you with that, Lily.’

  ‘Put it on the coffee table, please.’ Her voice was breathless.

  Nancy watched her son through narrowed eyes. She was shrewd enough to guess that if she carried on in her present vein he would leave, and she didn’t want him to leave. He was the first of her children to visit willingly, out of the blue, without being summoned.

  ‘Shall I pour?’ George’s voice was strong again.

  The only sound in the room was the clinking of cups and spoons, and the heavy ticking of the long case clock.

  Lily watched the two people in front of her. It was like some secret dance going on before her eyes. Her mother-in-law was subdued now, watching her son under lowered lids. Her yellowing skin had a grey tinge to it that had not been there earlier.

  George, on the other hand, looked well. Great, in fact. She could not remember seeing him look better. He had an assurance about him that was at odds with his appearance. George even dressed humbly. It was an odd thing, and if Lily had not seen it for herself she would have sworn it was impossible. How could someone dress in a humble manner? Well, George did. Only today his white shirt, grey tie and navy blue hand-knitted tank top looked almost jaunty. She took her tea in silence.

  There was a subtle shifting of position here and Lily was not sure whether or not she liked it. If George upset his mother, she, Lily, would be the recipient of Nancy’s bad humour when he left.

  ‘I’ll take my tea out to the kitchen if you don’t mind, I have things to finish out there . . .’ She was gabbling. Awkwardly she left the room. Whatever the upshot she wanted no part of it - but she left the kitchen door wide open.

  ‘Now then, Mother, this is nice, isn’t it?’ George’s voice was determined.

  Then Nancy smiled, a rare genuine smile. As it softened the hard lines of her face, George felt a lump in his throat. For a few seconds she looked young again. He saw the softness that she had sometimes displayed, that she had occasionally allowed through her veneer of hardness. It was the smile of the girl she had once been, a long, long time ago, before her marriage and her children and her other life.

  Before the men.

  George wished fervently he had known her then.

  He had his illusions about his mother, he needed them. He could not accept that she had been an evil force since childhood. That she had been using men to her own advantage from the onset of adolescence. That Nancy Markham had spent her whole life using and abusing people, none more so than her own children.

  ‘Over there in the sideboard are my photo albums. Bring them to me, Georgie.’

  He collected the bulky albums and put them on his mother’s lap.

  ‘Sit down at my feet and we’ll reminisce.’

  George did as he was told, like the old days when her word was law.

  Nancy began to flip the pages, her eyes soft with nostalgia.

  ‘Here, look at this one, Georgie. Remember this?’

  He knelt up and looked at the picture. It was of him, aged about five with his mother. She was wearing a two-piece swimsuit that had been racy in those days and peering into the camera with a sultry look. Her hair
was perfect; her long shapely legs partly obscured by a little boy holding a large candyfloss. George saw his baggy shorts with sticklike legs emerging from them, his close-cropped hair and serious elfin face.

  It was a day that had stuck in his memory because it had been a good day. A happy day. A rare day. The moment caught in his chest like a trapped bird, fluttering against his ribcage. He could smell the heat and the sand and the people. The donkeys, the candyfloss and the aroma of melting margarine in the jam sandwiches. Could almost taste the strawberry jam, gritty with sand from grubby fingers. Could almost touch once more the saltiness of the blue sea. It had been such a good day, from the train ride early in the morning to the sleepiness and exhaustion of lying in his crisp cold sheets ready to sleep the sleep of the dead. He could remember Nancy kissing him good night. Smiling down on him from her soft peachy face.

  ‘Camber Sands that was, Georgie boy. Lovely days those were. I was a picture then. Could gather the looks and all, them days.’

  ‘You still look wonderful, Mother.’

  It was a kindly lie, what she wanted, expected to hear.

  ‘Well, maybe not as good as I used to look but not bad for my age, eh?’

  Her voice was softer too, almost jocular. When Nancy was talking about herself she was animated and happy.

  She turned the page. This time the picture was of her alone. A head and shoulders shot. Lips just parted to show her perfect white teeth. Her deep copper-coloured hair framed her face and she had on bright orange lipstick. The picture had been hand coloured by the photographer and he had caught the exact shade of her hair and skin.

  Nancy stroked the page with wrinkled fingers, caressing the photograph.

  ‘I can remember this as if it was yesterday. The man who took the photograph said I should have been a model. Said I had a perfect bone structure.’

  And he should know, thought George. He moved in with us for a while if I remember rightly. He squeezed his eyes tight shut. He could see that day so clearly. They had all had their photos taken and afterwards his mother had sent them home. He could picture Edith in his mind shepherding them on to the bus, then making them something to eat at home. Later on his mother had come back with the man, a large gregarious type with a tiny pencil moustache and a Prince of Wales checked suit. He had brought back their mother, rather drunk, and a parcel of fish and chips, which had endeared him to Joseph and George immediately as he had not forgotten them. He had also brought them a large bottle of Tizer, then made them all laugh with stories of his time in the army. Telling the two avid-eyed little boys about shooting the Boche.

  Then, later that night, much later, George had woken with a tummy ache from the fish and chips and the Tizer. On his way to the toilet he had heard groans coming from his mother’s room. Opening the door quietly he had investigated. He had seen his mother kneeling on the bed with the man. His hands were in her long thick hair, fanning it around her head, pulling on it. He was groaning.

  ‘That’s it, Nance. Take the lot, Nance.’

  He could see his mother’s naked body in the dim firelight, could see her head and mouth moving up and down on the man. Then the man had spied him. Pulling Nancy up by the hair, he had dragged a sheet across himself to hide his nakedness. Too late George saw the fury on his mother’s face.

  ‘Get out, you nosy little bugger!’

  Then she was scrambling from the bed, her face twisted in temper, her lipstick smudged around her chin. She was stalking towards him with her long-legged stride, her mouth like a big gaping cavern.

  He had been three years old.

  ‘Here, Georgie, look at this one.’

  He was dragged back to the present.

  ‘Look at my dress. I remember saving up for that dress for ages.’

  George forced himself to look at the picture. He could feel the rapid beating of his heart subside.

  ‘Who’s the girl with you?’

  ‘That, Georgie boy, is Ruth Ellis.’

  He peered closely at the picture.

  ‘I worked her club. It was called the Little Club, of all things. In Knightsbridge.’

  Nancy looked at her son, a half smile on her face, enjoying the shock she was creating.

  George peered at the photograph again.

  ‘She ran a brothel.’

  ‘Hardly a brothel, Georgie boy. More like a gentlemen’s club.’

  George looked into her face and saw the gleam in her eyes. She was using her past now, the past she would not have mentioned to a soul, to try and undermine him, intimidate him. From religious grandmother, the epitome of decency, she was reverting to the days of her whoring to bring him low. He knew her so well. How sanctimonious she could be. He remembered her berating Edith when she had fallen pregnant that time; remembered the false impression of genteel poverty she liked to give to the neighbours. Remembered how she had told all and sundry of Edith’s fall from grace. Now her real life could be used to hurt one of her children, to wound, and she used it without a qualm. He felt an urge to strike her.

  Nancy watched her son’s face and guessed what he was thinking. The old malice was back in her now.

  ‘Someone once said to me: “Nancy, you’re sitting on a gold mine.” How right they were. And do you know who said it? Your father’s brother. I ran off with him. Your father hadn’t died, Georgie. I dumped him.’

  ‘You said he was dead! I believed . . .’

  Nancy laughed again. ‘He is dead now. He died about ten years ago. The police traced me and told me. He died in a bedsit in South London. He’d been dead ten days before they found him. Cheeky buggers wanted me to pay for the funeral! I told them where they could get off and all. He was useless, Georgie, bloody useless. Couldn’t even die properly. Alone to the last.’

  He felt himself rise from the floor, aware that his legs had gone dead at some point from kneeling - and then he slapped her. He knew he had slapped her because he heard the crack as his open palm met her baggy flesh, felt the force of her head snapping back and heard her scream of outrage.

  Lily, outside the door, was hopping from one foot to the other in agitation.

  ‘You evil slut! You dirty filthy slut!’ George had balls of spittle at the corner of his lips. ‘My father was alive. He could have saved me from you. Could have saved all of us from your men friends and your evil ways. You let men touch me for money . . . Touch me and use me!’

  His mind was like a burst sore, all his hatred spilling out. He was dangerously close to tears and swallowed them back.

  ‘You fucking filthy whore! You stinking tart!’

  All his life she had taken pleasure in hurting him, while she gave pleasure to others for a price. He felt bile rising in his throat, burning him. He pursed his lips together to stop it spewing out on to the woman sitting in front of him with the old mocking grin.

  ‘None of my children ever had any gumption. You were all like him, weak and sickly. I hated you all.’

  Her voice was filled with malice and something else.

  It was fear.

  She was scared of him, of what she had caused. Of what the outcome might be.

  George dropped back into a seat. Suddenly he was exhausted. It had been a mistake to come here. He should have known that. She had stolen his childhood, his innocence and his father.

  The last he could never forgive.

  The number of times he had run away from her, only to be brought back, when all the time he’d had a father he could have run to. A man to take care of him properly.

  He looked at his mother as if for the first time. He finally hated her one hundred per cent. She disgusted him. She was a whore. They were all whores, every last one of them.

  Suddenly he began to laugh, a high-pitched laugh bordering on hysteria, and it was that frightening sound that brought Lily bursting into the room.

  The old bitch! All those years of her sanctimonious rambling, listening to Joseph pandering to her, coming second to the paragon of virtue who rang her bell like a dem
ented school mistress and shouted, ‘Get me this, get me that!’ When in reality she had been a common prostitute!

  ‘You lying old cow!’ All Lily’s hard-won refinement was gone now.

  ‘You was on the bleeding bash!’

  Nancy stared at her daughter-in-law, eyes like pieces of flint.

  ‘You’ve driven us all up the bloody wall. Well, that’s it now, my girl. It’s a home for you. I don’t care how much it costs. Wait till Joseph gets in! I’ll give you Ruth Ellis! It’s a pity they didn’t bloody well hang you, you old bitch!’

  George wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and with a final glance at his now terrified mother, walked from the room and out of the front door. Lily’s shouting carried after him.

  He started the car. On the back seat was his suitcase, packed and ready for his holidays.

  Wait until he told Edith. George knew he would never see his mother again.

  Patrick Kelly made his way to Brighton. It had not taken him long to find out the addresses of Tony Jones’s family. If necessary he would take the elder daughter hostage until Jones came forward. It wouldn’t take long for the whisper on the street to get back to him, Patrick knew that.

  The Rolls Royce pulled up at an address in Steyning. Kelly nodded at Willy and they slipped from the car. Inside the small bungalow Tony Jones was drinking Scotch while his wife watched him. On his lap was his granddaughter Melanie.

  She loved her grandad and cuddled into his big flabby frame. It was Tony’s daughter who answered the door and she stood by silently as they walked in.

  Patrick nodded at the girl. She was not part of this, he knew that.

  ‘Where is he, love?’

  She pointed to a door at the end of the passageway. ‘In there. Look, Mr Kelly, my daughter’s in there . . .’

  He ignored her and walked into the room.

  ‘Hello, Tone, long time no see. I’ve come to take you for a little drive. Have a chat like.’

  Tony Jones blanched. The little girl on his lap sensed his fear and hugged him tighter.

  Kelly looked at the long blond hair and enormous blue eyes. She could have been his Mandy as a child. He put out a hand and touched the soft downy head.

  ‘Hello there, my darling. What’s your name?’