Wishing and Hoping

by Mia Dolan

  Michael laughed and pretended to shudder all at the same time. ‘That’s not a dream. That’s a nightmare!’

  She had to agree with him.

  The next day was Monday and Marcie took the children into the sewing room with her.

  Sally and Allegra were there.

  ‘Kids!’ Sally cried, her usual exuberant self.

  Allegra was more subdued. Even the way she dressed was far less glamorous than in the past. Marcie put it down to the fact that she was merely adjusting to a life without Victor Camilleri. A few other men had offered to take her out – not surprising, of course. Allegra was stunningly beautiful. Few invitations had been accepted and those that had seemed promising in Marcie’s eyes had petered out into nothing.

  Reopening the sewing room had been a tough decision. Having two children now, Marcie had wondered if she would be able to manage work and looking after them. There had also been Michael’s opinion to consider. She’d been afraid of him taking the old-fashioned view and not wanting her to work now she had children. A lot of husbands preferred their wives to stay at home despite all this bra burning by women who considered they were as good as men and could have home, husband, kids and career.

  As it turned out, Michael had encouraged her to continue with designing and making stage costumes for the exotic dancers and female impersonators who performed in nightclubs all over London and further afield. He assured her that having an outside interest would do her good.

  ‘Exotic dancers are the jam on our bread and butter,’ he’d said to her. ‘Someone has to make their costumes, so why shouldn’t it be you?’

  ‘Not quite my colour,’ he’d added on holding a sequinned brassiere to his ample and very masculine chest.

  She’d laughed and whipped his arm with it.

  She was happy in her marriage and in her work. If anyone had told her a few years back what she’d be doing she would never have believed them. It had always been her ambition to design and make fashionable dresses, but getting into that scene had proved more difficult in London than she could have imagined. Fashion houses would only take on girls with some kind of design or art school qualification. Marcie had neither and although Mrs Camilleri, the wife of Victor Camilleri, Michael’s father, had given her a start, it didn’t last. It couldn’t last once Marcie had found out the real reason she was there. Thinking her a virgin and a good Catholic, they determined she would be a good and uncomplaining wife for their legitimate son. It had all gone well at first; Roberto Camilleri had been enamoured of her and she’d been attracted to him.

  As big a criminal as his father, he’d seemed at first to be a charming rogue, a ladies’ man, but he really had wanted a wife with an unblemished reputation. Unfortunately when he found out that she had a kid out of wedlock his attitude had changed.

  Marcie still shivered at the thought of the day he took her for a drive in the country. She’d never told him about Joanna, safely at home on the Isle of Sheppey with her grandmother. Thanks to a bitter ex-friend, Roberto had found out her secret. Not a word was said about it on that drive until she saw the walls of the home for unmarried mothers looming up in front of them. She’d denied nothing, and after that his mood had become violent. He’d raped her. How could anyone say they loved somebody if they could do that? And then he’d acted as if they could still carry on. He’d wanted her to give up Joanna. She’d refused, but he’d kept on at her, insistent that she would change her mind. Roberto Camilleri was used to having his own way.

  It was Michael who had sorted things out; Michael who had caused his half-brother and his father to be arrested. Roberto had ended up in prison. Victor was out and, although he hadn’t exactly vowed revenge on his son, Michael was wary and keeping his distance.

  If it hadn’t been for friends like Sally and Allegra – both of whom had been with her at Pilemarsh, the Salvation Army home for unmarried mothers – she didn’t know what she would have done, gone back to Sheppey probably. And then there was Michael. For his sake as much as for her thriving little business, she’d stayed in London. Marriage to him had seemed a natural progression. She was happy with him and happier still when Aran had come along. Perhaps it was her own happiness with her life and family that made her so angry with her father.

  ‘I think my father’s got a fancy woman. Have you heard anything?’

  She directed her question at Allegra who shook her head. ‘I am no longer part of the nightclub scene, Marcie, so in all honesty, I wouldn’t know. What makes you think that?’

  Marcie began unwrapping some material samples sent to her by an East End fabric merchant.

  ‘Oh. Just something my stepmother said. He’s not going home much. The kids are missing him.’

  She had no intention of describing her stepmother’s outburst. Much as she disliked Babs, her words had not fallen on deaf ears. She knew her father too well.

  ‘Perhaps he has just been working too hard,’ said Allegra.

  Her beautiful dark eyes looked trusting, as though no man could possibly behave like that. Since when had she changed, and why haven’t I noticed before? thought Marcie.

  Sally looked up and laughed. ‘Rubbish. That’s the way he is. He’s that sort of bloke. A lot of blokes are like that. It’s the chase that matters and as long as the wife is at home playing mother bleedin’ hen, they consider it all right for them to be out chasing spring chickens – even though they ain’t one themselves. And being involved in nightclubs don’t help. Think of it as a playground for men or the kid in the sweetshop. They’re surrounded with the stuff of their dreams, only in their case it isn’t chocolate or pear drops, it’s sexy girls taking their clothes off. It’s bound to get to them sooner or later.’

  Sally said all this whilst playing horsey with Joanna. The voluptuous blonde who stripped off for a living was on all fours while Joanna sat astride her back shouting, ‘Giddy-up, Auntie Sally.’

  Allegra had picked up Aran and was humming a lullaby while smiling down into his sleeping face. Looking at her now, it was hard to believe that Allegra had once been Victor Camilleri’s mistress. She’d left him following Marcie getting raped by Roberto. He’d beat her after finding out that she’d tried to warn Marcie that Roberto was looking for her.

  Nowadays Allegra was trying to build a more respectable life for herself. At the same time she was also repairing the links with her parents, who had been appalled at her shacking up with Camilleri. All this had happened after her sojourn at Pilemarsh where she’d given birth. She’d never admitted who the father of the child was but swore that it wasn’t Victor Camilleri.

  At present she was studying for a law degree, though she admitted she hadn’t quite made up her mind whether that was the way she wanted to go.

  ‘The right path will come to me in a flash,’ she said to her friends.

  Allegra had a precise way of speaking which was laced with a Spanish accent. Her parents hailed from Jerez and were something to do with the sherry trade. She’d not been her old self since parting from Victor Camilleri, though her clothes were still designer and, thanks to her wealthy – though largely absent – family she was not short of cash. All the same, Marcie detected a change in her, a more deep-thinking Allegra had replaced the elegant confidence she’d known before.

  ‘So do you reckon your dad is still knocking around with that black girl, Ella?’ Sally asked.

  Marcie shrugged. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘How would I know?’ Sally said casually.

  Marcie was not fooled. She could tell by the way Sally immersed herself in playing with Joanna, not meeting her eyes, that she knew more than she was letting on.

  ‘I didn’t know that her name was Ella,’ said Marcie.

  ‘I know that she had two kids and her old man does a runner every now and again, depending on whether the police are looking for him. I’ve not heard that she’s around. So p’rhaps your dad is on the straight and narrow and it’s all a mistake.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Sally.�
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  Sally had a way of sighing when she knew the game was up. She did that now. ‘OK,’ she said, tipping Joanna gently off her back. ‘I did hear there’s a new bird on the scene. But I don’t know her name. That’s all I know. I would have thought he would have told you more. I’m only repeating gossip – you know how it is in the club scene – everybody is always shagging somebody, the most unlikely people too, blokes who you’d always understood were happily married, but, as I said, that’s the club-land scene for you. All blokes are the same – all of them, without exception –’

  She stopped abruptly, suddenly aware of what she’d just said. ‘Not Michael, of course. Michael I would swear by. Honest I would. He’s the only bloke I know who I’d lay my life on being faithful. One hundred per cent.’ She laughed lightly.

  ‘I know he is,’ said Marcie with undisguised confidence. ‘I know he is. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me – besides my kids that is. Absolutely the best.’

  But the barb had hit home and that night, as she lay in bed waiting for him to come home, she wondered if he hadn’t been with someone else.

  Chapter Six

  PADDY RAFFERTY LIVED in a palatial drum behind wrought-iron gates as far away from his centre of business as it was possible to get without being totally out of touch. London was still in his blood and the loot he made from his varied business interests flowed from the East End and North London into his bank account. From Tottenham to Whitechapel he had his fingers on the pulse of the less salubrious side of life. Prostitution, drugs, protection and property: they were all part of his book as he put it.

  The brick detached bungalow he called home had its own swimming pool and an acre of garden. Little stone lions sat either side of the gates and there were gnomes in the garden. Both he and his wife had a thing about gnomes out of nostalgia for an Ireland they’d never even visited but had seen in films starring Mickey Rooney.

  They didn’t refer to their gnomes as gnomes; as a nod to their Irish roots, they called them leprechauns.

  Paddy had just done his customary twelve lengths of the pool and was towelling himself down. Contrary to popular belief, it was one of the few occasions when he did not wear his gloves. One of his employees, a bloke named Charlie Baxter, with a square chin and hands like shovels, handed him his robe and a pair of soft suede gloves.

  It was after midday so he ordered a double whiskey without offering one to his visitor. His visitor was Timothy Hampson-Smythe, his personal brief, who took care of the more paper-orientated legal matters, like contracts and deeds.

  Timothy was over six feet tall, had mousy-coloured hair and practically no chin to speak of; the term ‘chinless wonder’ was made for him.

  Of impeccable breeding and education, he used to work for one of the most prestigious law firms in London. Unfortunately he got caught making erotic overtures with a broom handle. He was ‘let go’ without notice. The broom handle was consigned to a bonfire.

  Knees held tightly together, Timothy Hampson-Smythe was sitting on a plastic chair at the side of the pool, his briefcase clasped like a shield against his chest.

  Paddy could tell by the ex-Cambridge, ex-guardsman’s lack of eye contact that he was not the bearer of good news.

  Paddy took a sip from his glass of Bushmills best Irish. ‘Well, Timmy, will you tell me what our friend Mickey Jones has to say for himself?’

  Timmy pursed his lips. He hated being referred to as Timmy and had told Paddy so on many occasions. However, on the last occasion, he’d received a backhander for his trouble and was told in no uncertain terms that Paddy Rafferty was paying the bill so Paddy Rafferty would call him anything he damn well liked!

  His eyes, as black as crude oil and as shifty as windblown sand, flickered nervously between his client and his own clasped hands. On doing so he noted that his knuckles were turning white. Relaxing wasn’t easy in the presence of Paddy Rafferty.

  Timothy had just returned from a visit to the Blue Genie nightclub. Michael Jones had unknowingly bought a batch of rundown real estate that had been earmarked for Rafferty. Rafferty had friends in local politics so knew where the likely development opportunities happened to be. He held off offering until the very last moment, and that, as Timothy knew only too well, was his downfall. Now he was aiming to become a business partner of the man who had bought it. The problem was that Paddy wanted to pay no more than he’d had in mind to offer the original owner. He would have made a killing if he’d paid the right price at the right time. But Michael Jones had got in there first and getting on board as a partner – a sleeping partner in fact – was proving to be difficult.

  Timothy cleared his throat before saying what he had to say. ‘I’m afraid he again refused your offer, Mr Rafferty.’

  Timothy Hampson-Smythe had not been keen to go along with the offer in the first place, offering as it did basically nothing. The contract was just a partnership, a system whereby Patrick Rafferty would cream off a portion of the profits until such time as the place came up for redevelopment. He had it on good authority that the place would become the subject of a compulsory purchase order of which he would take a portion when the time came. He would also get in on the development package and on top of that would provide cheap Irish labour for the job. In turn the Irish labour, who out of the goodness of his heart he would bring over from Ireland, would pay him that portion of their wages which was rightly due to the Inland Revenue.

  ‘Heads I win, tails I win,’ he’d said gleefully to his wife.

  She’d barely looked up from the magazine she was reading, but did say, ‘Yes dear.’ As though she’d been listening!

  To all intents and purposes it was a protection racket, though unlike most protection rackets, Patrick was in it for the long haul. Not that he didn’t have a few straightforward ‘pay up or get beat up’ types of arrangement which were based on a weekly or monthly collection of funds.

  Michael Jones’ operation was more upmarket and bound to last for the long term and was therefore special. Paddy viewed future development prospects as something of a pension plan for himself and Millicent when they were old and grey and fancied the sun on their bones. They were considering the South of France though Spain was a possibility once Generalissimo Franco was dead and buried. A pound went a long way when exchanged for pesetas. In the meantime they were setting down the seeds of a very nice pension plan.

  Paddy’s nose twitched and his lower lip sagged. Having someone upset his best-laid plans was tantamount to throwing a dog’s turd in his face. Paddy was not pleased. His watery eyes seemed to solidify behind his crisp golden lashes. His lips pursed once he’d gulped back the rest of his drink and he immediately ordered another.

  ‘A double,’ he said to Baxter, shoving the glass against the big man’s chest. His eyes narrowed. His face froze. He whipped round to face Hampson-Smythe.

  ‘What reason did the bastard give?’

  ‘Well, basically, what he said was that he couldn’t really see his way to taking you on as a partner. He didn’t need one. It wasn’t until I was examining the paperwork that I found out that he was lying and he already has a partner.’

  ‘Partner?’ Paddy’s bushy eyebrows shot upwards like a pair of flying caterpillars.

  This was the first time Paddy had heard anything about a partner. He’d done his research, or rather he’d had someone do the research for him. It always paid to have someone on the inside and Tony Brooks had a big mouth once there was plenty of booze flowing over his tongue. Tony had a bad habit of telling people things that to his mind seemed totally innocent. Most of the time he was boasting about how successful the club was; the schmuck even divulged how much the takings shot up on a Friday or Saturday night. Was the man mad? But even he hadn’t mentioned a partner.

  No. Not mad. Just drunk. A bit of a loose cannon that Michael Jones would do well to watch. Not that Paddy wanted Michael to watch his father-in-law too closely.

  Tony had told him a lot, such as that Michael
Jones had parted on bad terms with his father and set up on his own. If Camilleri were behind the clubs then he wouldn’t touch him. He dare not.

  ‘What partner?’ he asked, his expression reflecting the consternation he was feeling.

  Hampson-Smythe licked his bottom lip again before continuing. ‘Well,’ he began.

  ‘Well, what?’ Paddy couldn’t resist the urge to hurry his lawyer along. It was obvious the man was scared of him. Paddy was pleased about that; he liked people to be scared of him.

  Hampson-Smythe explained. ‘I’ve heard nothing word of mouth. It wasn’t until I examined the legal documentation that it came to me. It seems that his wife is his business partner, besides being his marriage partner, of course, though he keeps it quiet. I understand they’re very close, inseparable in fact.’

  Paddy frowned and began pacing up and down like a man possessed. ‘His wife? What sort of outfit is he running?’

  ‘I tried to reason with him, Mr Rafferty, but I am afraid he showed me the door and was quite belligerent . . .’

  The pacing stopped. Paddy flung the whiskey glass over his shoulder and grabbed his brief by the throat.

  ‘Belligerent? Speak fucking English, man! Does that mean he was taking the piss?’

  ‘Not . . . quite . . . Mr Rafferty.’ The words were choked out between struggles for breath. ‘Aggressive. After that he was more, as you say, mocking in his reference to you.’

  ‘Mocking?’ Rafferty’s eyes were glaring into those of Timothy Hampson-Smythe. ‘What did he say?’ he asked, his voice sinking into a low growl. ‘What did he say about me?’

  Timothy was gagging for air. ‘I . . . can’t . . . breathe . . .’

  Paddy, seeing the other man turning red in the face loosened his grip. ‘Tell me,’ he yelled, shaking the lawyer like a terrier might shake a rat, despite the fact that Hampson-Smythe towered above him.

  The lawyer drew in a deep breath before he could answer. ‘He said that his wife rated above a pseudo Irishman with poxy hands and a taste for garden gnomes.’