First to arrive was Mrs Duffin, whose face was impassive as she was shown into the waiting room and sat down on the hard leather bench staring ahead. Next came Frank and Bella Galloway, he with his grey hair well groomed and wearing a blue serge suit over an immaculate white shirt and grey tie. Bella came in holding on to Frank’s arm. She had been well schooled in the art of presentation, and for her the occasion warranted something demure. Her two-piece suit was in grey, worn over a high-collared blouse which was buttoned to the neck. Her shoes were plain black and she carried a black leather handbag. She had not been lavish with her make-up that morning and she looked positively reverent as she seated herself next to Mrs Duffin without acknowledging her.
A few minutes later Tony O’Reilly walked into the outer office. He was in uniform and still looked tired after his long night journey from Yorkshire. He glanced quickly around at the gathering and then sat down next to Frank Galloway, who gave him a puzzled look.
Soon John Hargreaves came out from the inner office and smiled benignly at the assembly. ‘We’re just waiting for one more. Would you all like to come in?’ he said with an inviting sweep of his hand.
Chairs were set out facing the large carved oak desk, and as the visitors made themselves comfortable the young secretary put her head in the door. ‘The car’s here,’ she said quickly.
Hargreaves left the room and returned after a short while pushing a wheelchair. The occupant, an old lady, sat bowed, a tartan blanket wrapped round her shoulders. Her white hair was set in waves and her surprisingly lively dark eyes darted from one person to the other as the solicitor positioned the wheelchair next to Mrs Duffin.
Frank suddenly rose from his seat. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed. If it isn’t Nora Flynne,’ he said, going over and taking her hand in his.
Nora gave him a weak smile. ‘Hello, young Frank,’ she replied in a quiet voice. ‘Yer’ve filled out a lot.’
‘How are you, Nora?’ he asked.
‘It’s me legs, but I mustn’t grumble.’
John Hargreaves seated himself at the desk and when Frank had resumed his place, he looked round at the gathering. ‘As you all know, we are here for the reading of the will of George Galloway, and I would like to proceed forthwith,’ he said in his gruff voice.
There was complete silence as he opened an envelope and removed a single sheet of paper which he set down in front of him. For a few moments he stared down at it, then he adjusted his tortoiseshell spectacles, cleared his throat and began reading.
I, George Galloway, of 24, Tyburn Square, Bermondsey, London, being of sound mind and body, declare that this is my last will and testament. I revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions made by me. I appoint John Hargreaves, solicitor, to be the sole executor of my will, but if he does not survive me then I appoint any partner of the same firm to act as executor.
Frank Galloway’s jaw was set firm as he waited and his eyes stared unblinking at the elderly solicitor.
I give and bequeath my transport business, namely, George Galloway and Son, cartage contractor, to my son Frank, with the hope that the business will continue to trade under the family name. To my old and valued housekeeper Mrs Nora Flynne I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds. To my present housekeeper Mrs Ada Duffin I bequeath the sum of fifty pounds. To my grandson, Tony, I give and bequeath the residue of my estate including my properties in Page Street, Bermondsey, Wilson Street, Bermondsey, and Allen Street, Rotherhithe, the aforesaid properties as defined in the deeds of ownership. With this goes my earnest hope that my grandson Tony will use the properties to raise the necessary capital for the establishment of his business, which would trade under the family name.
Frank Galloway’s face had become ashen and his jaw muscles tightened. Hargreaves continued reading.
Should my grandson fail to produce an heir and fail to survive my son Frank, then the residue of my estate will pass to my only surviving son. In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand this 3rd day of December 1939.
Bella Galloway gave her husband a hard look as they made their way to Broad Street Station by taxi. ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she said for the hundredth time. ‘For years you’ve struggled in that damned business, and for what? The old man must have been senile. Fancy giving all that property to a grandson he hardly knew. It was yours by right. He had no reason to leave you almost penniless.’
Frank Galloway’s face mirrored his shock and anger but he made no immediate reply. If that bitch Gloria had done her job properly instead of relying on her friends he might have been able to have done something about it, but it was too late now, he thought. At least he had finally rid himself of her and her constant excuses. There was nothing he could do now about the situation which seemed so unreal, but was in fact only too real. Hargreaves had explained it all. There was no question of the old man being of unsound mind, and no possibility of there being a mistake in the identification of Tony O’Reilly’s father. There had been letters, and the birth certificate. Yes, Hargreaves had spelt it all out. The old man had got his earnest wish, a grandson to carry on the family name. It felt as though Geoffrey was laughing at everyone from beyond the grave, and Frank suddenly shivered violently. ‘At least I’ve still got the business,’ he said finally, and in a flat voice.
‘The business,’ she almost choked. ‘I shouldn’t think for a minute you’ll be able to sell it, not while there’s a war on. Nothing’ s changed, you’re no better off now than when your father was still alive. No, it’s damned unfair, it really is.’
Frank sat silently fuming as the taxi drove over Tower Bridge. His mind went back to his wedding day. He recalled the young woman who was so absorbed with Geoffrey at the reception, and he wondered whether she was the one who had become the mother of his child. It was just like Geoffrey to be so secretive. Why hadn’t he brought the girl home, or made an honest woman of her? Perhaps that had been his intention, Frank thought. Well, there would be no accountancy business now, unless he could sell the transport business, and as Bella had said, that was very unlikely at the present time. Maybe fate would intervene. Tony O’Reilly might get killed in action, but then again he might be wounded and invalided out of the service, or he might survive without a scratch. Then he would have his newfound wealth with which to set himself up in business, though he would probably fail and lose it all. As like as not he would squander the money.
As the taxi turned into the narrow streets of the City of London, Frank felt a black depression descending over him and he turned to Bella, hoping for a glimmer of support. She was gazing out of the window, her face set firm, and he knew that the very brief truce in their agonising marriage had ended.
Nora Flynne sat talking to Tony as she waited for a car to take her back to the church home for elderly ladies. ‘We were good friends once, yer muvver an’ I,’ she told him. ‘We lost contact after I went inter the ’ome. I’m sorry she’s so poorly. Yer will give ’er my love, won’t yer?’
Tony nodded. ‘Maybe she’ll come an’ visit when she’s feelin’ better,’ he said.
‘That’ll be very nice,’ Nora replied. ‘You must come too, if yer not overseas.’
‘I certainly will,’ the young soldier said smiling at her.
Nora studied him for a few moments and then reached out a bony hand and laid it on his. ‘Yer’ve just come into a lot o’ money, young man,’ she said with a deep look. ‘Use it well. Money can’t always bring yer ’appiness. It didn’t bring George Galloway much ’appiness.’
Tony gave her a big grin. ‘I won’t let it taint me,’ he replied. ‘When the war’s over, I’m gettin’ married. I’ll make it work fer us.’
Nora nodded slowly, her tired eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Yer got a young lady then? Is she from round ’ere?’
‘She comes from Salmon Lane. ’Er name’s Rachel an’ she’s a Tanner gel,’ Tony informed her, waiting for the old lady’s reaction.
She looked shocked and sighed deeply. ‘I knew the family, A G
alloway marryin’ a Tanner, now that will be somefink,’ she said, nodding her head.
Tony smiled at her again. ‘Rachel an’ me know all about the bad blood between the families, but it don’t worry us,’ he said lightly. ‘It’s no concern of ours.’
‘Oh, but it is,’ Nora replied, her eyes widening as she looked at him. ‘Make no mistake about it, young man. Yer gotta remember, I was ’ousekeeper ter George Galloway fer many years an’ I know. I could tell yer fings, fings that’d surprise yer. The bad blood between the Tanners and the Galloways runs deep. The minglin’ o’ blood ’appened once an’ the result was somefing I don’t care ter talk about. You must ask yer muvver about it. She’ll tell yer.’
Tony could feel the passion in the old lady’s words. ‘She ’as told me about certain fings,’ he said. ‘She told me about Josephine Galloway.’
Nora’s eyes clouded as she mumbled the name. ‘Josephine. I loved that girl like she was me own,’ she told him. ‘The poor dear’s end was so tragic. There was nuffink I could do ter prevent it. Nuffink anybody could do. The damage was done the day she was conceived.’
Hargreaves’ secretary looked into the room. ‘The car has arrived, Mrs Flynne,’ she informed her.
Tony got up to leave and Nora beckoned him to bend down to her. ‘There’s somefink I wanna say before yer go, young man,’ she said in her frail voice. ‘Don’t ferget ter give my love ter yer muvver, an’ tell ’er ter come an’ see me soon as she’s able. Now this is important, an’ I want yer ter promise me yer’ll remember what I’m gonna say.’
Tony nodded. ‘I promise.’
Nora fixed him with her dark eyes. ‘If yer ever find the bad blood between the two families starts ter mar yer ’appiness, or that of yer young lady, or if ever the Galloway money troubles yer for any reason, then yer must come ter see me. It’s very important. D’yer understand?’
‘I understand, Nora. I won’t ferget,’ Tony said, patting her hand.
The driver arrived and he made sure that the old lady was tucked snugly in the blanket before he wheeled her from the room, and as he spun the chair round to face the door, Nora nodded sternly at Tony. ‘Remember yer promise,’ she reminded him.
All through the bitter winter the nightly bombing went on. Sometimes the weather deteriorated enough to prevent an air raid but as soon as it improved, the raiders were back. Other cities were being targeted as well and on some nights London was spared. During February, more and more people began to sleep in their own beds, only going to the shelter when the air-raid siren sounded. On some nights the bombing was light and some folk ignored the air-raid warnings altogether.
Maurice Salter worked a tiring shift system and whenever he was able to, he slept in his own bed, ignoring the siren and pulling the bedclothes over his head as he went back to sleep. Maurice’s three daughters preferred to hurry down to the shelter when the siren went, however, and one night when he was snoring loudly through an air raid he was shaken awake by a very agitated Brenda Massey.
‘Maurice. Maurice! Maurice!’ she cried. ‘Mum’s ’ad a fall.’
The sleepy man roused himself and yawned as he looked up at Brenda. ‘A fall, yer say? Where is she?’
‘She’s lyin’ at the foot o’ the stairs groanin’. I fink she’s broken somefink!’ Brenda gasped.
‘’Ow did yer get in?’ Maurice asked as he slipped his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his trousers.
‘Yer door was left ajar,’ she told him.
‘It’s those bleedin’ gels o’ mine. I could ’ave bin ransacked,’ he growled. ‘Not that there’s anyfink werf takin’ in this ’ouse.’
Brenda was getting impatient. ‘Never mind that. Mum might be badly ’urt,’ she said anxiously.
Maurice slipped his bare feet into his shoes and hurried down the stairs behind Brenda. Outside, there was a full moon and flashes of gunfire raked the clear sky. A dull drone of aircraft sounded in the distance as the two hurried along Page Street to Brenda’s house. The door was open and as Maurice stepped into the passageway he saw the old lady lying on her back with her feet resting on the bottom stairs. Her long dress was smoothed down over her thin legs and her hands were clasped together, as though she had lain down to sleep.
‘I’m done for,’ she groaned as Maurice bent over her.
‘Where’s the pain, luv?’ he asked.
‘Me legs. It’s me legs,’ she moaned.
Maurice very gently ran his fingers over the old lady’s shins and ankles and could find nothing unusual. ‘Top part or bottom part?’ he asked her.
‘All over,’ Granny said, looking up at Brenda with a wicked glint in her eye.
Maurice leaned back on his haunches. ‘I can’t go touchin’ the top of ’er legs. You’ll ’ave ter do it,’ he told Brenda.
Granny winced as Brenda slid her fingers down her thin thighs.
‘I can’t feel anyfing wrong,’ Brenda said.
Maurice noticed the sly grin that hovered for an instant on the old lady’s face and he decided that she had been up to one of her antics. ‘If yer ask me, she’s laid down there on purpose,’ he whispered to Brenda. ‘If she’d ’ave fallen down the stairs ’er clothes would ’ave bin round ’er neck.’
Brenda had to agree with him. ‘What we gonna do?’ she asked him.
‘Fetch an ambulance,’ the old lady groaned. ‘I could be dyin’.’
‘They’re all busy,’ Maurice replied gruffly, turning to Brenda. ‘Don’t worry though, I know what ter do. I’ll run round ter Billy Bennett’s place. ’E’s got a barrer. We could tie yer mum on it an’ run ’er up ter the ’ospital. While I’m gone, though, yer’d better tuck ’er up in a blanket. We don’t want the mice runnin’ up ’er dress while she’s lyin’ there.’
Maurice winked at Brenda as he went out of the door, ignoring the old lady’s protestations. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a minute,’ he called out.
He went back to his house and put the kettle on. Ten minutes later he walked back into the Massey house to find Granny sitting comfortably in her favourite chair. ‘ ’Ow are yer, Gran?’ he asked pleasantly.
‘None the better fer yer askin’,’ she growled at him. ‘Barrer indeed. I’d never live the shame down.’
‘C’mon, luv, don’t be obstinate,’ Maurice said blithely. ‘Billy’s bringin’ the barrer round in a few minutes. Let the’ospital give yer the once over. It won’t take long.’
‘Poke the bleedin’ barrer up yer arse,’ Granny shouted. ‘I told yer once, I ain’t gettin’ on no bloody barrer.’
The sound of the all-clear drowned Granny’s further comment and Maurice sighed. ‘Well, I’m goin’ back ter bed. Brenda, can you go an’ tell Billy Bennett we don’t need the barrer after all?’ he asked.
Brenda hid her smile. ‘All right,’ she replied, following Maurice out of the house.
Five minutes later, after a quick cup of tea, Maurice and Brenda were tucked up beneath the sheets. ‘D’yer fink we’re wicked?’ Brenda asked him.
‘Yeah,’ Maurice replied, turning towards her.
Carrie sat with Joe discussing her most recent employee.
‘It’s not as though Frank Dolan’s incompetent,’ she remarked. ‘It’s just the way ’e acts sometimes.’
Joe scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘I know what yer mean,’ he replied. ‘The ovver night ’e didn’t seem as though ’e wanted ter go ’ome. ’E was talkin’ ter me fer ages after ’e’d parked ’is lorry up. Bundle o’ nerves ’e is, too.’
Carrie shook her head. ‘I was askin’ Paddy Byrne about ’im an’ ’e said Frank Dolan was tellin’ ’im that ’e ’ad seven kids. ’E told me ’e ’ad six. Paddy reckons ’e’s a bit strange.’
‘Well, as long as ’e does ’is work satisfactory there’s nuffink ter worry about,’ Joe said.
‘I s’pose yer right,’ Carrie answered, getting up to turn on the wireless for the news broadcast. ‘It’s just a bit strange. Fer a start, ’e don’t look nowhere
near fifty, an’ then there’s that bag’e always carries about wiv ’im. I was wonderin’ if ’e’s sleepin’ rough or in lodgin’ ’ouses.’
The newsreader’s deep voice interrupted their conversation to say that the call-up had been extended once more, and all men born in 1903 would be required to register within the next few days.
Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child Page 41