by Martina Cole
‘The old Bill. They’re looking for Michael. What’s going on?’
She knew her sons and would bet her last pound that Geoffrey had been awake waiting for something like this.
‘You go back to bed, Mum. I’ll sort out the filth.’
Both turned as they heard a door opening. Maura Ryan came out of her room, clutching a raggy doll. Sarah went to her, picking her up in her arms. Geoffrey went down the stairs.
‘Mickey ain’t in.’
‘Well, where is he then?’ This from the older of the policemen.
‘He’s up West. At a house in Knightsbridge. What do you want him for?’ Geoffrey yawned in their faces, scratching his belly lazily. The younger policeman noticed that his pyjamas were hardly creased. Geoffrey Ryan hadn’t been in bed. The trouble would be proving it.
‘Somebody tried to murder Joe the Fish earlier.’
Geoffrey felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. ‘What do you mean, tried to murder him?’
‘Exactly what I say. And knowing how close Mickey is to him, I thought we had better let him know.’ The older officer was trying to goad him.
Unlike Anthony, Geoffrey could keep a lid on his temper. Deliberately misconstruing the policeman’s words, he shook his head sadly and said, ‘Mickey’s like a son to that man. This will come as a great shock to him. What exactly happened?’ He had to know what was going on. Half of his mind was saying silent prayers. He’d been sure Joe was dead when they left him.
‘Someone tried to run him over a few hours ago. He’s fighting for his life in St Charles’s Hospital. The hospital said to try and get his next-of-kin. We assumed that was Michael Ryan. Two men couldn’t get any closer than those two have been over the last couple of years, could they?’ The policeman raised his eyebrows and his colleague laughed.
Geoffrey was saved from answering by his mother’s voice. She had been carrying Maura down the stairs and had heard the policeman’s remark.
‘What are you trying to say? I know you lot with your dirty insinuendos.’ She hitched her daughter up on to her shoulder, holding her steady with her free hand. The other was gripping the banister rail, her knuckles white and bony. ‘My Michael is a decent clean-living individual. Now I’ll thank you two to get out of my house.’
Hiding a grin, Geoffrey took the heavy child from her as she came to the bottom of the stairs. Maura sat in his arms, an alert expression on her face. At seven she was already wise to the likes of the police. Sarah pushed angrily at the two policemen. She looked so tiny beside the two men, yet so ferocious, that Geoffrey laughed out loud.
‘That’s it, Muvver. Tell the bastards to sling their hooks.’
Opening the front door, Sarah let the men out. She was fuming. How dare they say that of her Michael! Her temper was caused by the fact that she had a terrible suspicion that what they said was true. Slamming the door on them, she turned her anger on her son.
‘Well, don’t stand there like a gormless eejit! Go and get dressed and find Mickey!’
Placing Maura carefully on the floor, Geoffrey ran up the stairs. Maura followed her mother into the kitchen, curling up on one of the easy chairs by the fire.
‘Can I have a standing up egg, Mum?’
Sarah nodded. ‘Of course you can have a boiled egg if that’s what you want.’
She filled the kettle, her mind racing. If Joe the Fish died then it would be a murder charge for somebody. But who? Michael? She pushed the thought from her head. Whatever she thought about her boys, there was one thing she knew: they were not murderers. They were just tearaways. High-spirited tearaways. Or, at least, she hoped that’s all they were. Putting the kettle on the gas, she went to her daughter and hugged her tightly.
Joe was lying in the hospital bed. Nurse Walton looked down at his battered face. She shook her head and turned to see the policeman by the bed grimacing at her. She blinked and sighed.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ Her voice sounded very young.
PC Blenkinsop pushed out his narrow chest and tried to look like an all-knowing, sophisticated officer.
‘You’d be surprised. It’s a wicked life out on the street these days. He might look like an old man who’s been run over a few times to you, but to me . . .’ he puffed his chest out even further ‘. . . he’s a vicious criminal.’
Nurse Walton looked suitably impressed. ‘Just wait until I tell my mum!’
PC Blenkinsop looked as if he was readjusting his shoulders inside his tunic top. He thrust out his chin and smiled.
Joe groaned and immediately had the attention of both of them. ‘Mickey . . . Mickey.’
PC Blenkinsop was writing down Joe’s words with a flourish of his pencil. Licking it, he waited expectantly.
Michael stood in the entrance to the ward. He had known that a policeman would be in attendance. Squaring his shoulders, he walked down the ward towards Joe’s bed. He could see the young PC and the nurse through the inadequate screens. Putting a sober expression on his face, he went to the bed.
PC Blenkinsop noted Nurse Walton’s reaction to Michael Ryan and it annoyed him. He thrust out his lip like a petulant schoolboy.
‘And who might you be?’ He stood up and seemed to roll on the balls of his feet. Michael gave him a scathing glance. He picked up Joe’s hand which was heavily bandaged. He turned to the nurse and smiled sadly at her.
‘How bad is he?’ His voice sounded wretched. Nurse Walton stared into his dark blue eyes and was immediately filled with pity for him.
‘He’s very bad. The doctor says he’ll be surprised if he lasts out the day.’ If she had known Michael, she would have noticed the glimmer of relief that came into his eyes.
‘Has he said anything at all?’
The PC interrupted. ‘He has been calling for a . . .’ he glanced importantly at his notebook ‘. . . Mickey.’
Michael nodded. ‘That’s me.’
The young nurse brought Michael a chair and he sat beside Joe, holding the old man’s hand and stroking it every now and again. The PC watched him. So this was Michael Ryan. He couldn’t wait to get back to the station and brag about how he’d seen him.
The nurse brought Michael a cup of tea and he thanked her, giving her one of his radiant smiles. PC Blenkinsop could have cried. She didn’t even know he was there now.
Shortly before seven in the evening Joe opened his eyes and immediately recognised Michael. He passed his tongue over his cracked lips and tried to speak. Michael could see by the look in his eyes that he knew who had ordered his accident. Agitated, Joe tried to lift his head off the pillow.
‘Mickey . . . Mickey . . . you . . .’ Then his head fell back and he died.
Michael closed his eyes, a feeling of euphoria surging through him. He had got away with it! Then, as could happen with him, he felt a deep despondency replace his feeling of elation. Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over on to his cheeks. In his own funny way he would miss Joe who had been his passport into the real world. For that he would always be grateful to him. He would give Joe the Fish the best send-off anyone had ever seen.
PC Blenkinsop looked embarrassed. Later on in the station canteen he had everyone hanging on his words.
‘Yeah, I’m telling you. It was quite touching. Michael Ryan cried like a baby. Well, it was to be expected really. After all, the old boy died calling out his name.’
At Joe’s funeral a week later, the police noted that all the gang bosses stopped to pay their respects to Michael Ryan. He was well and truly established now. That, together with the fact that Joe had willed him everything he possessed, made Michael Ryan a very happy man.
Chapter Five
1960
Sister Rosario looked at the pinched face of Maura Ryan and her heart went out to the child. She had noticed her being teased mercilessly all through the dinner hour, no doubt due to the fact that her brother Benjamin had been expelled the day before. The nun realised that now the child had no one to protect her, so
me of the other children were making up for lost time. She watched Margaret Lacey lean forward across her desk and pull hard on one of Maura Ryan’s long blonde plaits. Sister Rosario didn’t like Margaret Lacey. She didn’t like any of the Laceys, with their carroty red hair and green malicious eyes. And this Margaret Lacey was the most brazen strap of a child she had ever come across. The nun leapt from her seat, causing her chair to fly backwards. The noise brought thirty pairs of eyes to rest on her.
‘Margaret Lacey, come out here at once!’ Her voice reverberated around the classroom. Margaret, her face pale with fright, slowly edged her way from behind her desk and began to walk to the front of the class. Sister Rosario was without doubt the hardest nun in the school. No amount of tears could shake her. Margaret stood before her, trembling. Tapping a ruler across the palm of her hand, Sister Rosario stared at the child for a few seconds. She knew from thirty years’ experience that bullies were a breed apart. Most were inherent cowards who picked only on people who they knew were frightened of them.
The nun’s countenance and dark brown close-set eyes challenged the child before her.
‘Did I see you pull Maura Ryan’s plait?’
Margaret’s big green eyes seemed to have taken possession of the whole of her face. Her tiny pink mouth was trembling. Already, tears were beginning to glisten in her eyes.
‘N . . . N . . . No, Miss . . . I mean, Sister.’
In her fright she had begun to stutter. This caused some of the other children to titter, quickly putting their hands over their mouths to stifle the sound.
Margaret Lacey was the class bully and the children enjoyed seeing her get, for once, what she doled out so often.
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ The nun’s eyes had narrowed.
‘No, Sister!’ Margaret’s voice was stronger now. Whoever heard of calling a nun a liar? It was unthinkable. Her own mother would kill her if she knew. Her eyes were now riveted on the ruler in the nun’s hand. She knew that it was liable to come swishing down on her hands and legs at any moment.
Sister Rosario was enjoying Margaret’s discomfiture. Running her tongue across her teeth she glared down at the object of her annoyance. Her white wimple covered nearly all her head, revealing only wrinkled yellowing skin that, combined with her dark eyes, had earned her the epithet ‘Lizard Features’.
‘So . . . you admit to pulling Maura Ryan’s plait then?’
Maura watched Sister Rosario completely demoralise Margaret Lacey. She sat in her chair, her face scarlet. She did not thank this nun for making her the centre of attention. She knew that whatever Margaret got she would make sure Maura got it back one hundredfold.
‘Yes, Sister . . . I pulled Maura’s plait.’ This was said so low as to be virtually inaudible.
‘Speak up, child.’
‘Yes, Sister. I pulled Maura Ryan’s plait.’ The high piping little voice was trembling with fear.
Smiling smugly at the class, Sister Rosario lifted the ruler. ‘Hold out your hand then.’
The thin little hand came out. Margaret closed her eyes tightly as the ruler came down hard six times across her palm. Against her will, hot scalding tears burst from her eyes and down her cheeks. She held her injured hand to her breast as if frightened it might drop off, and at a nod from Sister Rosario made her way back to her desk, rubbing at her injured palm with the thumb of her good hand.
Sister Rosario’s beady eyes scanned the classroom for about twenty seconds before she said, ‘Let that be a warning to any would-be bullies in this class. Next time it will be twelve strokes of the ruler and your name read out at mass.’
Thirty faces looked scandalised at the thought of having their name read out by Father McCormack. Picking up her chair, the nun turned to her blackboard and began writing on it.
Seizing her opportunity. Margaret leant forward across her desk and whispered to Maura.
‘You’re dead, Ryan. Come hometime I’m gonna kill you.’
Maura closed her eyes, a knot of fear already forming in her stomach. Everyone was frightened of Margaret Lacey, even some of the boys. Which was surprising really because she was so small. But small or not, she could fight and that was all that counted.
Maura sat back in her chair and looked out of the window to the side of her. A group of younger children were playing rounders. The voice of Miss Norman, the games teacher, drifted in at the window now and again. Always encouraging, never reprimanding. As Maura watched the dust motes flying through the air in the rays of the June sun she wished that she was outside with the younger children. That she was anywhere away from Margaret Lacey and her cronies who would without doubt be waiting for her as she left the school. Why was it that time always flew when you didn’t want it to? The minutes sped by until the bell that heralded hometime.
Slowly Maura went to get her coat, hoping against hope that if she took long enough Margaret would get fed up and go home. She walked slowly from the school, across the playground and out of the gates into Latimer Road. Sure enough, Margaret was waiting for her, about twenty yards past the school gates. She had three of her cronies with her: Jennifer Howard, Betty Leeds and Vanessa Rouse. Maura began walking towards them like a condemned man on his way to the gallows. Prickles of sweat had broken out along her backbone. She bit down hard on her lip as she watched the four girls.
She saw that Jennifer and Vanessa were laughing at her and something inside her stirred. In all her ten years she had always had one or other of her brothers watching out for her. Now here for the first time she was fighting her own battle. And fight it she would! She swallowed deeply. She could hear her heart crashing in her ears. She decided then and there that she was not going to stand for it. She had eight brothers and had had to fight or argue with every one of them at some time or another. Holding her head high, she walked faster, swinging her schoolbag menacingly.
The four girls looked at each other, puzzled. This wasn’t supposed to happen! First they were going to make her squirm, then Margaret was going to hit her . . . Betty Leeds began to hop from one foot to another, a sure sign of agitation. Vanessa and Jennifer stepped back behind Margaret. Maura stopped in front of them, still swinging her school bag. She gave a loud sniff.
‘Well?’ The insolent way she said it made the other girls gasp with astonishment. Margaret Lacey soon found her tongue.
‘I’ll “well” you, you ugly bitch you! I’m gonna smash your face in!’
The other girls smiled. This was more like it.
‘Well then, don’t just stand there talking about it . . . do it!’
All eyes were glued to the swinging schoolbag. Margaret was silent for a few seconds. She could feel the others losing their nerve. If she didn’t do something, and soon, they would desert her. She spat on to the pavement casually.
‘I will when I’m good and ready!’
Margaret Lacey was getting more worried by the second. She had thought she’d give Maura’s long blonde hair a few good tugs, a scratch or two on her face, and then home to tea, basking in the other girls’ admiration. Now she wasn’t sure what to do. She might even get hit herself! She decided on a delaying tactic. Kneeling down on the dusty pavement, she made as if to tie her shoelaces.
The next thing she knew, she was lying sprawled across the pavement. Maura’s schoolbag had hit her straight in the side of the head. Next, her long red hair was pulled so hard she felt as if it was going to come out by the roots. Finally, she felt a kick on the knee that brought a shocked cry to her throat. She lay on the pavement staring up at Maura Ryan, amazed. Her three friends had already run off. As soon as Maura’s schoolbag had hit Margaret in the head, they had made their escape, frightened in case Maura decided on a repeat performance on one of them!
Maura just stood there stunned, staring at Margaret lying at her feet. She had done that! She had knocked Margaret Lacey down! She could feel her chest swelling with the joy of it. She had actually defended herself against Margaret Lacey, the school bully, and she had
won. She had done it alone without one of her brothers to defend her!
Seeing Margaret begin to pull herself up, Maura’s natural kindness came to the fore. This would be all over the school tomorrow. She tentatively held out her hand to help Margaret up. The smaller girl looked at her long and hard before accepting it. Maura pulled her to her feet and began to brush down Margaret’s uniform, which was covered in grey dust. This was all done in silence, except for the occasional sniff. Maura saw the small swelling on Margaret’s grubby knee and felt ashamed of herself. She had kicked her very hard and Margaret was smaller than her. In silent agreement they walked together down Latimer Road, into Bramley Road and then through to Lancaster Road, where both girls lived. They stopped outside Margaret’s house first and stood looking at one another.
Margaret sniffed loudly and said, ‘Come in if you want. Me mum’s at work.’
It was the hand of friendship. Maura shrugged nonchalantly. ‘All right then.’
They walked up the steps that led to the front door. Margaret’s house was the same as Maura’s except it had been made into flats. Margaret’s family lived on the top floor. Being large town houses they were three storeys high with large basements. As many as five families lived in them. As they made their way up the stairs the smell of cooking and urine seemed to overpower them. Margaret’s flat had no lock on the door. There was no need for one, there was nothing to steal.
‘You take off your things and I’ll make us some bread and Marmite.’
‘Ooh, lovely. I love Marmite.’
As Margaret made the sandwiches and a pot of weak tea, Maura glanced around her. The room was filthy, clothes and newspapers strewn everywhere. Unlike her own home that was stoved regularly, cockroaches were on everything. A particularly adventurous one with large quivering antennae was being slowly buried in the rancid margarine. Maura shuddered inwardly. The last few years her mother had been waging a war on all vermin, including bed bugs. Money was now plentiful in her home, thanks to Michael’s employing her brothers in his business, while the majority of the people in Lancaster Road were still no better off than they had been before the war. Margaret’s mother worked at the new Black Cat cigarette factory out in Harlow and her father still worked in Lyons bakery. Maura watched with distaste as Margaret flicked the cockroach out of the margarine with the breadknife. It landed on the floor where it lay on its back, its numerous legs doing cycling motions as it tried to right itself. Wrinkling her nose Margaret stepped on it, the crunching noise sounding like a gunshot in the hot evening air.