Paradise Court

by Jenny Oldfield

  Hettie looked deep into her eyes. ‘You heard the news?’

  Mary nodded. ‘That’s why I came.’

  ‘Poor Ernie!’ Hettie broke down in tears. ‘This is a terrible thing, Mary. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Then say nothing,’ came the kind reply. ‘Only I came to tell you not to worry. That boy never killed my Daisy, and the sooner they find that out the better.’

  Hettie looked up again through tear-filled eyes. ‘It’s very good of you to come here,’ she told her. Lost for words, the women fell into each other’s arms.

  ‘I never wanted my trouble to land in your lap, Hettie, believe me. You been good to Daisy, and you been good to us. We have to pray to God that they’ll set the boy free soon. I don’t like to think of him locked away for something he never did.’ Mary held both of Hettie’s hands and spoke rapidly, earnestly.

  ‘Or worse,’ Hettie agreed. ‘They’ll hang him if they find him guilty, Mary. That’s the worst of it!’

  ‘Oh never!’ Mary gasped. ‘It’ll never come to that. What can we do to stop it? Oh, Hettie, they can’t do that to the boy. Where’s the justice? Where’s the sense? Oh, your poor Pa!’

  Jess came out, found them sobbing anew, and took them inside. The family blessed Mary for coming; it was a great comfort. Even Duke moved out of his profound hopelessness to offer her words of thanks. ‘It ain’t over yet,’ Jess promised. ‘We got a long way to go in this family before we’re through!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  After softening the desk sergeant’s heart at Union Street and gaining just five minutes with Ernie to try and reassure him that all would be well, Frances decided to set about using her contacts to get him good expert advice. He seemed to understand that he must stay in custody until they’d sorted things out for him, but he was worried about what Mr Henshaw would say if he failed to turn up for work next day. Frances promised to explain. ‘Don’t you worry, Ern, Mr Henshaw will understand.’

  ‘Will he get another boy?’ Ernie asked. He pictured someone else riding the shiny black bike up and down Duke Street.

  ‘I hope not, Ern. I’ll talk to him for you.’ Frances and Sadie rose to go. ‘You gotta stay here and be patient, and try not to worry too much. Do as they tell you and you’ll be fine.’ She bent and kissed his cheek. ‘Cheer up, Ern, well do everything we can to get you out of here.’

  She and Sadie sailed out of the police station, heads high. But they carried with them the memory of Ernie’s stricken face as the coppers came, in to lead him back to his lonely cell.

  ‘He loves this job, Mr Henshaw,’ Frances told the shopkeeper next day. ‘He’s afraid you’ll think badly of him for letting you down.’ She was on her way to work at Boots, calling at Henshaw’s, then planning to stop at Billy Wray’s newspaper stand to ask about a solicitor.

  Henshaw tied the strings around the waist of his long calico apron. ‘Tell him from me his job will be here waiting for him when he gets out, Miss Parsons. I ain’t found a boy as steady as Ernie for donkey’s years.’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘And tell your Pa that Mrs Henshaw and me are sorry for his trouble. You be sure and tell him that.’

  Frances nodded. ‘Thanks, Mr Henshaw.’

  He stood at the shop door; apron tied, sleeves rolled up, dark hair parted down the middle. He could see the effort Frances had to put into making her way to work as usual, threading through the handcarts and the men loading up their stalls with the day’s produce, a neat figure in her grey costume, stepping smartly over puddles, past street-sweepers and boys scavenging for fruit.

  When she reached Meredith Close, the scene of the arrests during Coopers’ window-smashing incident, she found Billy Wray already at his news-stand, surrounded by billboards proclaiming wonderful advances against the Germans, and the enemy’s imminent collapse. Billy greeted her with a quick handshake. He’d heard the bad news about Ernie, who hadn’t? Was there anything he could do? Frances discussed the sort of legal help they needed; she was afraid the duty solicitor wouldn’t take much interest in a case like Ernie’s. It turned out Billy had contacts at the Workers’ Education Institute on St Thomas Street. He promised to nip along there today and do his best to help. Moved by his and the Henshaws’ generosity, Frances felt her nerve begin to give way. She was prepared for battle, but not for kindness. Quietly she took a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose.

  Billy too watched her on her way, oblivious to her surroundings, walking automatically amongst the heavy morning traffic, until she was swallowed by the trams and omnibuses, emerging briefly on the far side of the street, only to disappear again amidst the sea of cloth caps and boaters jostling to work.

  A telephone message made its way to Florrie Searles in Brighton. A well-meaning neighbour in Paradise Court took it upon herself to go to the Post Office to ring and tell Florrie’s son, Tom, that the Parsons had landed in terrible trouble. By noon that day, the indomitable Florrie had packed her bag and boarded the express train into Waterloo.

  ‘Wilf will go to pieces about this if I’m not there to back him up,’ she told Tom. ‘I know him; never says nothing, but it’s all going on inside his head. And there’s that pub to run. It don’t run itself. Wilf needs me there!’

  ‘Now, Ma, go easy,’ the thin, middle-aged man warned. He looked up from the platform at her determined expression. ‘Don’t go rampaging.’

  Florrie’s look switched to one of prim outrage. ‘Me? Rampage? What you on about? I have to go when my one and only brother lands in trouble, don’t I? We make these sacrifices in our family, always have. Why, I’m practically a mother to them poor girls!’ She sniffed and glanced sharply up and down the platform. ‘Now listen, Thomas, no need for you to fret while I’m away. It ain’t as if I never taught you how to cook and do for yourself, is it?’ She cast him a worried, protective look.

  Tom, afraid that she was going to make a scene, gave a quick shake of his head. ‘No, Ma!’

  ‘And it ain’t as if you won’t have Lizzie coming in to clean for you, Monday to Friday. She’ll lay the fires of a night, and leave plenty in the pantry. All you have to do is heat it up.’

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  ‘Lizzie’s a decent sort.’

  ‘Yes, Ma.’ Lizzie Makins was a scrawny old skinflint whose gravy didn’t stand up to scrutiny. Tom curled his thin top lip over his bottom one. The guard waved his flag and blew his whistle. Steam gushed from the engine.

  Florrie thrust her son back from the side of the train. ‘Stand clear, Thomas, we’re moving off!’ Her waving handkerchief and brave farewell echoed the scenes in romantic novels where noble heroines gave their all.

  Standing on the platform in a cloud of steam, Tom felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. His mother was a large woman and a great gossip, convinced of her own indispensability in every area of life. He’d carried her, slung around his neck like an albatross, for some crime he was unaware of having committed; for being born most likely. He waved the stout figure off, and she waved back under her mountainous cream-coloured hat. He heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  She arrived in Duke Street in style, throwing a penny at the boy who bobbed up beside the taxi to carry her bag. She stood for a minute in the street, gazing up at the Duke’s golden lettering, inspecting the windows for signs of the least neglect, glancing down the court. ‘Dreadful thing to have happened, ain’t it?’ she confided to the taxi-driver as she paid her fare. She rolled her eyes sideways towards the pub.

  The man nodded, nonplussed.

  ‘A terrible thing for a respectable family, but I ain’t ashamed to own up to him as my brother. Oh no, we Parsons gotta hold our heads up, make no mistake!’ She grasped the man’s hand as she slipped the two silver coins into it.

  ‘Good for you, missus.’ He tried to snatch his hand away.

  ‘It’s at times like this you know who your real friends are.’ Florrie let the man go at last, stood up straight and braced herself. She pulled her brown jacket straigh
t across her bosom, then adjusted her giant hat. The taxi-driver sped off like a greyhound from the trap. Her bag carrier stood and staggered under the weight.

  ‘What you got in here, missus, a bleeding iron mangle?’

  Florrie tapped him on the backside with her umbrella. ‘Cheek. Watch it, sonny, there’s a step up here. Don’t knock the paintwork. Turn right through here. Watch them edges. Here, now you can put it down. Careful!’ She stood in the middle of the empty bar, surrounded by gleaming mirrors, fancy plaster cornices, dark wood panelling. The old place hadn’t changed a bit. ‘Wilf!’ She spread her arms wide and advanced like the Titanic. She plunged towards him. ‘Ain’t no need to say nothing. Your boy’s innocent, we know that. Just stop worrying. Everything’s gonna be all right, I’m here to help!’

  Florrie’s tidal-wave effect threw up survivors. She was something to stand up to, after all, and a reminder that they’d weathered bad times before. When Hettie and Jess surfaced after the shock of her arrival, they rearranged beds, emptied drawers and resigned themselves to being buffeted by her loud opinions and enormous personality. If anything, she was larger than before; stouter around the middle, her shoulders and bosom puffed out with yards of gathered white cotton. And the hats had certainly increased in size along with the rest of her. This cream one sat like an upturned shopping basket, loaded with violent red silk poppies all around the brim. She kept it on as she distributed her possessions around the house, keeping it pinioned to her jet-black hair by half a dozen vicious hatpins.

  When a sergeant called in the late afternoon to follow up the arrest by interviewing members of the suspect’s family, Florrie had to be restrained. ‘You stay here, Auntie,’ Jess protested. ‘Joxer says it’s me he wants to see first.’

  She let this information penetrate. ‘You? What’s he want with you?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ Jess went to make sure that Grace was sound asleep before she made for the landing.

  ‘Leave her be,’ Florrie said, waving her off. ‘I looked after more babies than you’ve had hot dinners, girl. Better go and make sure you give that copper a piece of your mind. Ask him when they gonna let that poor boy out. Tell him it’ll be the death of his old man down there if they don’t!’

  Florrie’s voice gushed downstairs after her. Jess pushed open the bar-room door, afraid of the line the police questioning might take. Was there anything unusual about Ernie when he came home on the night of the murder? the sergeant would ask. He‘d be gathering evidence and writing down what she said. She looked at him in cold fear, knowing that Duke stood in the background listening.

  The sergeant pressed hard. ‘Did you think to ask him where he’d been?’ He sat, pencil poised.

  Jess tried to hold her voice steady. ‘I knew where he’d been. He was up at the Palace with Robert.’

  ‘But he came back by himself did he?’

  She nodded. ‘He got lost.’

  ‘And would you say he was in a bit of a state? Out of breath? Upset?’

  ‘He was very quiet. He never said nothing.’ Jess glanced at Duke. She was unwilling to admit the state Ernie had been in, but she felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Soon the policeman would be sure to pin her down.

  ‘Just normal?’

  ‘Yes. He don’t say much.’

  The sergeant began to feel irritated by her stonewalling. ‘But did you notice anything different? Was his clothes messed about, for instanc? Had he been in a fight?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about his boots?’ The sergeant remembered a trail of bloody footprints leading out of the murdered girl’s dressing room.

  She wasn’t quick enough with the direct lie. ‘No,’ she faltered. She met his stern gaze, then cast her eyes down, unable to hold it.

  ‘Hm, fair enough,’ the sergeant said. He was no court prosecutor, but anyone with experience could break this story. He bet his life that Jess could be brought up as an accessory after the fact. Closing his notebook, he thanked her for her time with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, then he turned to Duke.

  Jess rose quickly. ‘How’s Ern? Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s due in court tomorrow to face charges. Then they’ll move him on to a remand cell in the Scrubs.’ He spoke evasively, being the one to avoid her eyes now.

  ‘But how is he in himself? He ain’t gone to pieces, has he?’ Jess begged.

  ‘He’s taking it quietly, I’d say. He ain’t no trouble.’ The policeman nodded at Duke, asked him for a few minutes of his time, and told Jess to leave them alone together.

  If there was anyone he felt sorry for in all this mess, it was the old man. When they had the room to themselves, he questioned him more gently and soon decided to call it a day. His inspector had ordered him to head back to Union Street by half four. They were due to take detailed statements from some of the eyewitnesses, having hauled in some of the low life from down Duke Street. He expected to interview Syd Swan, Chalky White and Whitey Lewis, among others, and they were there when the sergeant got back to base. In fact, Chalky White was already slinging his hook.

  ‘Hey!’ He put himself between the petty crook and the exit.

  ‘It’s all right, Sergeant, let him go.’ The inspector looked up from his desk and sniffed. ‘He’s got an alibi to say he was nowhere around.’

  Chalky grinned into the sergeant’s face. ‘And there ain’t a thing you can do about it!’ he sneered. ‘Ask them!’ He jerked his thumb towards Syd and the others.

  ‘That’s right, he weren’t well, Sergeant. He had a bit of a headache,’ Syd confirmed.

  The sergeant sneered back. ‘Too much to drink, Chalky?’

  ‘A crack on the head, as a matter of fact,’ Whitey put in.

  ‘All right, all right!’ Chalky’s pasty face shadowed over. ‘Let’s just say I was below par, safely tucked up in my own little bed!’ He pushed roughly past.

  The sergeant shrugged then let him by. ‘Mind how you go,’ he mocked. Then he went to join the bunch of seedy-looking hooligans, headed by a cocky Syd Swan.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the inspector said. ‘There’s plenty more fish in the sea. And Syd here tells me he’s got some valuable information to impart.’ Pen poised, he got ready to write down the eyewitness account.

  Duke had seen the sergeant out of the pub, more worried than ever. Jess protested that she’d done nothing wrong, but she had to confess about Ernie’s boots when he pushed her to give him the truth. ‘But, Pa, it don’t prove nothing! All right, so we know what Ernie walked in on! He blundered into the middle of a murder, that’s what, and he came home too upset to talk about it. He literally walked into it and he never even noticed the blood. Honest, if it’d been him what done it, the blood would’ve got everywhere. All over his hands, his clothes, everywhere. But he’d only got it on his boots, I swear to God! Just think about it; it can’t be Ernie. Why can’t they see that?’

  Duke’s head had sunk to his chest. ‘They see what they want to see. As long as they can lock up some poor sod for doing Daisy in, they’re happy.’ He sighed. ‘We ain’t doing Ernie no favours, Jess, by not telling them the whole truth.’

  She was stunned, but at last she saw he was right. ‘All right then, we better get started.’ Pulling herself together, she sprang into action. ‘If Ernie ain’t the one they want, who’ve we got left?’ She counted people off on her fingers. ‘There’s the manager, that other bloke who works there, and Teddy bleeding Cooper. It’s gotta be someone, Pa!’ Distraught at the notion that she’d made things worse for her brother, she pushed herself on. ‘What’s the time? I’m off up to Coopers’ before they close. You wait here, Pa, and ask Auntie Florrie to keep an eye on Grace for me, will you?’

  Without bothering with hat or coat, Jess flew out of the door and up the street to the drapery store.

  Teddy Cooper sat back in his father’s office chair, his feet up on the desk. The old man had gone off on the train to the woollen mill in Bradford where they bought most of the w
orsted cloth for the men’s suits. He’d be away for at least three days. Meanwhile, Teddy enjoyed the luxury of driving the motor car and draining his father’s drinks cupboard. With experienced foremen, the place more or less ran itself, leaving him free to flirt with the shop-girls and put in a token appearance every now and then in the workshops. Thick-skinned as he was, his unpopularity didn’t dent his confidence; he strutted about the place in Mr Cooper’s absence, from electrical goods into menswear, and up into household linens.

  But when Jess burst into the office to confront him, even his self-satisfied smile faded. He was presented with a breathless, half-demented woman demanding to know what he’d done to Daisy O’Hagan; how she’d go to the police station and tell them all about his affair with poor Daisy if he didn’t go himself. ‘How can you sit there and let someone else get the blame?’ she shouted, beside herself. The whole street knows about you! Ain’t it about time you owned up, you bleeding bastard!’

  Teddy stood up and motioned one of the shopwomen who’d pursued Jess through the store out of the room. He advanced and kicked the door shut. ‘Don’t let my father hear you chucking insults like that around,’ he said coolly. ‘Good job he ain’t here.’

  ‘I don’t care if he is here! If you ain’t got the decency to own up when they nab the wrong person, I can call you any names I like!’ She stood, gasping and dishevelled. ‘Go on then, tell me where you was when it happened!’

  ‘Ah!’ Teddy rested on the edge of the big mahogany desk and fiddled with a glass paperweight. ‘So you think I’m Jack the Ripper, do you?’

  His flippant crudeness shocked her into silence. She was suddenly aware of onlookers crowding round for a better view outside the glass partition.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ He put the cut-glass sphere on the palm of his hand and balanced it.