Putting on the Style

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Little tantrum? But he’s smashed my machines to . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ Belle interrupted. ‘Don’t tell me any more. Like it or not, you’ll just have to live with the consequences of your action.’

  This wasn’t quite the result Dena had hoped for, yet she had no choice but to accept Belle’s decision. It could have been worse, she supposed. At least Belle wasn’t intent on making life any more difficult for her than it already was.

  Belle’s attention had already moved back to her own personal concerns, and she was busily applying a thick coat of crimson lipstick. ‘Now where’s my bag? The election is only days away and I really must get out and about and on with my canvassing. I can rely on your vote, I trust, Dena?’

  ‘Of course,’ Dena said. What else could she say?

  Kenny was feeling mighty pleased with himself as he went around the market collecting his dues, quite certain that it was only a matter of time before Dena came running back to him. How could she not after such a revelation? He should have done it long since.

  But while he waited for that to happen, it was vital that he went on with his plans to make as much money as he could so that he could properly provide for her, as she deserved.

  Besides, the elections were due at the end of this week and Kenny felt it incumbent upon himself to ensure that everyone had got the message about who they were expected to vote for.

  He didn’t trouble himself with the certainties: the Higginson sisters for instance. They were so nervous of him they’d have voted Adolph Hitler on to the committee had he still been around and Kenny had instructed them to do so. It was a great pity others weren’t as obedient.

  Lizzie Pringle stared at him blankly from her stance inside her chocolate cabin, saying nothing as he explained again the importance of her vote. Then, just to emphasise his point, he picked up a rum truffle and popped it in his mouth. ‘Wouldn’t pay for you to be obstinate, Lizzie. You do see that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lizzie said. ‘I do.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Then he hawked and spat on the rest of the box of truffles and sauntered off, well pleased with himself.

  The Bertalones were a walkover, ever fearful of being sent back to Italy, Kenny supposed. They were so polite to him it was almost nauseating, even gave him a raspberry dash as a treat. But then they didn’t much care for the way he eyed up their youngest daughter, Katrina, so that might have something to do with it. Kenny was willing to use any trick he thought appropriate, even though the girl didn’t appeal to him in the slightest.

  Jimmy Ramsay, Sam Beckett and Alec Hall had long since accepted that he was in control. He could tell, when he spoke to them that they still didn’t like being told what to do, but realised it was pointless trying to fight him. Far too expensive on their respective businesses, Kenny thought with a chuckle as he counted the notes they’d given him before clipping them safely to the wad he’d already collected.

  Molly Poulson and the rest of the stall holders were easy to talk round, taking the minimum of effort.

  But then there was Barry Holmes. Kenny paused, propping himself against the horse trough while he lit up a Gold Flake to consider the matter. How would Barry react to Kenny telling him what to do? Wasn’t he, in a way, the cause of all his problems?

  After careful thought how best to play it, he stubbed out the cigarette with the heel of his crepe soled shoe, thrust back his padded shoulders and strolled over to Barry’s stall. He was a man now, after all, not some snotty-nosed kid, and really, it proved far easier than he’d expected.

  Barry just looked at him and nodded. ‘Whatever you say, Kenny.’

  Which left only Winnie. And she was proving to be a very obstinate, difficult old woman indeed.

  He watched her all of that day, and the next, choosing to make his approach the night before the election when she was on her way home. She was late, as luck would have it, and dusk was falling so Winnie didn’t instantly recognise him when he approached.

  ‘Who’s there? Who’s following me?’

  He could hear the nervousness in her voice and it was an enormous satisfaction to him that when he announced himself, she didn’t appear relieved. One could almost say that she was frightened.

  ‘I just wanted to remind you of the elections tomorrow, Winnie. You promised to vote Joe Southworth out of office, if you remember, and put my mam in his place.’

  ‘I did no such thing. You’ve got that all wrong, lad.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear you say that, Winnie. It’s a great pity, a very great pity indeed that you can’t find it in your heart to be more obliging. I was hoping you might have seen sense by this time.’ She was standing foursquare before him, a large bag on her arm and knitting needles in hand as if she was ready to clout him with the one and stab him with the other. An amusing thought which almost made him laugh out loud.

  ‘Don’t try your bullying on me Kenny lad. I’m no wilting violet. It may have escaped your notice but this is a secret ballot and I intend to keep it that way. How I vote is me own business, not yours.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Winnie. That isn’t how it works at all. You’ll vote for Mam, for Belle Garside, if you know what’s good for you. If you don’t want any further trouble, that is, like your stall going up in flames. Or your house burnt to the ground for that matter, with Dena and that bastard child of hers still inside, nicely tucked up in their beds.’

  He saw how the colour drained from her cheeks. ‘You’d never do such a wicked thing!’

  ‘Are you prepared to take the risk? That’s the more sensible question you should be asking yourself. Don’t try to fight me, Winnie, you’d be bound to lose. Just put your cross against my mother’s name, that’s the safest way.’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  He hit her then, punched her straight in the face as he’d learned to do as a boy in Barry Holmes’s boxing ring. Then he kicked her in the stomach as she lay crumpled on the ground, and kicked her again and again. By the time he’d got his temper back under control and stalked off, it was clear that Winnie wouldn’t be voting for anyone.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Dena first became concerned when Winnie did not appear for tea. By seven-thirty, unable to sit still and wait any longer, she gathered Trudy in her arms and went back to the market hall to look for her. She found it all locked up and in darkness. So where was she? Surely Winnie hadn’t taken it into her head to go off somewhere, visiting a friend perhaps, without telling her? She would never do that. And she’d known that Dena would have the tea ready by six. Something was wrong, Dena was sure of it.

  It was then that she saw Joe Southworth. He came striding towards her across the cobbles and the expression on his face told her everything. A great lump of fear rose in her chest, almost stopping her from breathing.

  ‘Joe, what is it, tell me!’

  Winnie had been found an hour earlier by two young boys playing out on their bikes. Fortunately they’d had the good sense to call Joe, and he had rung the ambulance at once.

  ‘Now don’t start panicking, Dena. They’ve taken her to the infirmary where she’s to have an operation to remove her spleen. She’s still unconscious but holding her own, for now, and we can only pray she continues to do so. If you come with me, love, I’ll run you over there in my car.’

  The day of the elections dawned and Belle was up bright and early. She had a ten o’clock appointment at Joyce’s Hair Stylist on the corner of Champion Street to have her hair done, all back-combed and bouffant and well lacquered against any stray wind. It was vital that she look her best when they made the announcement.

  She’d also bought herself a new dress especially for this most important day. It was in her favourite fuscia with a dash of orange thrown in, a lively number so that nobody could miss seeing her up there on the platform. The skirt just skimmed her knees and though she said it herself, she didn’t have bad legs. The white court shoes would set them off a treat.

/>   She wondered if Marco Bertalone would approve. Age had done nothing to take away his good looks and she wouldn’t be against testing his loyalty to that plump, pudding-faced wife of his. There was a faded prettiness about her but the poor woman had cropped too well, having produced five children, or was it six? And lost her figure as a result. She certainly didn’t make the best of herself. Not a mistake Belle would ever make.

  Belle was very excited as she slapped Max Factor pancake all over her face, in no doubt that she was going to win this time around, not only get elected onto the committee, but be in complete control, ousting Joe Southworth from power at last. She would be so glad not to have to occupy his bed any more. His appeal had long since palled.

  Taking her eyebrow pencil she carefully pencilled in the plucked line of each brow. Oh, and hadn’t she loved all the campaigning, all the canvassing? She might consider standing for the local council in due course.

  She spat onto her block of mascara, rubbed in the brush then began to apply it to her long lashes, congratulating herself that she’d definitely got it right this time. Kenny too had turned up trumps. Real dark horse, he’d turned out to be, with far more gumption to him than she’d ever given the lad credit for. People were actually stopping her in the street assuring Belle that she could count on their vote, and would she please tell Kenny that.

  He was a good lad.

  Eyeliner next, good and heavy to widen those dazzling violet eyes. Belle felt a bit sorry for him though, having lost Dena in the end. She hadn’t quite made up her mind whether she approved of these goings on, or not. Carl was saying nothing on the subject, had been very sullen these last few days, keeping his opinions very much to himself. But that was Carl all over, shutting himself away, keeping his own counsel.

  Poor Kenny was the one really suffering though. For the lass to shame him once at the altar was bad enough. It was surely adding insult to injury for her to choose his brother instead?

  Belle paused in her thoughts to rummage through her make up bag and search for the right shade of lipstick. Had she used up all her fuscia? Ah, here it was.

  One advantage was that she was delighted the little one, her grandchild, after all, would remain in the family. Kenny didn’t have it in him to make a good dad. Carl had always played that role, so perhaps it was no bad thing.

  And it was no skin off her nose which of her sons the lass was sleeping with, was it? What difference did it make? Although Belle had to admit she would have preferred both of them to look higher, for a girl with more power, a good family background, and a deal more money, but the lass was nobody’s fool and going places with that little business of hers.

  As Belle patted Goya powder over her nose and then clipped on a pair of large white daisy earrings, she wondered if perhaps she could persuade Dena to make one or two bits and pieces for her future mother-in-law, in her spare time. She had a fancy for a nice little suit, something in turquoise or aquamarine.

  It was then that the door burst open and Carl came striding in with the news.

  Dena had sat by Winnie’s bedside all night, quite against the rules but the young night nurse was kind. She’d even found a little bed to tuck Trudy into and the little girl was asleep in minutes. Despite her exhaustion, Dena couldn’t rest. She sat holding her friend’s hand, praying, pleading, begging with her God not to take this dear woman whom she loved so much, from her.

  Just before dawn and despite all her best efforts to stay awake, Dena must have slipped into an uneasy slumber because the young nurse was suddenly shaking her shoulder and calling her name.

  ‘Dena, wake up. Wake up, Dena. Look.’

  ‘What? What’s happened?’ Dena sat up, startled, her heart pounding with fear.

  ‘By heck lass, you look like you’ve got two holes in your head where your eyes should be. What have you been doing to yourself?’

  ‘Winnie, you’re awake!’

  Belle was duly elected, leaving a disgruntled Joe Southworth with no option but to offer his congratulations and stand down. No one seemed particularly happy about this decision and many were already beginning to regret their own weakness which had led to it.

  There were certainly going to be many changes in the market.

  For a start, all the rents immediately went up. Belle bludgeoned this through the committee within days of taking over.

  Not only that but traders were expected to pay for a full fifty-two week year, irrespective of whether they chose to trade in every one of those weeks, and that every stall-holder must personally attend at least one week in every month. This brought forth an outcry of objections, particularly from farmers who used the market only when they had produce to sell.

  ‘That’s your problem,’ Belle told them. ‘We need reliable stall-holders, not simply those who come when they feel like it.’

  There was some support for this argument so it went through without further challenge, although there were a few murmurs when she pushed through an amendment which said that if regulations weren’t followed, suspensions or fines could be imposed.

  ‘And who would benefit from such fines?’ cried one outraged stall-holder. ‘How much spare cash would find its way into your back pocket?’

  ‘The committee would benefit, and through them the entire market,’ Belle responded, tight-lipped with anger. ‘What are you accusing me of? Fraud? Malpractice? It takes money to run this market, to pay for cleaning, the new electric lighting we’re going to install, as well as the purchase of better equipment. I have plans for many improvements and a new development in the future. Money has to be found from somewhere.’

  To her credit, Belle did have some good ideas. She planned to have built a more solid row of stalls for the fish and meat market, and promised to approach the council for a grant to help pay for it. ‘You shouldn’t have canvas flapping about where fresh food is concerned.’

  Jimmy Ramsay, for one, heartily approved of this idea.

  But when she started to talk about controlling new licences which would only be issued to the sort of business the market needed to attract, and not more of the same type of stall, she came up against some stiff opposition.

  ‘That smacks of censorship,’ Alec Hall remarked.

  ‘It’s common sense. Would you want another music stall in competition with yours?’

  ‘I believe in competition so I suppose I’d have to live with it. This market used to be a free market, one to which anyone could come along, put up a stall and start trading. All right, those days are long gone, but that doesn’t mean that we have the right to pick and choose who is allowed to trade and who isn’t. If there’s space to expand, if a vacancy exists, then that should be the only criteria, not the nature of the stall.’

  Belle did not agree and argued the point at length, with some degree of support, though little success. She lost this particular vote, vowing to return to the subject at a later date when the extensions were complete.

  Abe Johnson was heard to remark that while he personally had no wish to see a load of other second hand stalls moving in to compete with his, he did agree with free choice and didn’t think for a minute that Belle would stick by the committee’s decision. ‘She’s her own woman, that one. And now that she’s got her hands on some power, she’ll exercise it in her own way, whatever the rights and wrongs of the case.

  ‘There’s no way she can go against a committee decision,’ Alec protested.

  ‘You think so?’ Abe shrugged. ‘We’ll see. Only time will tell.’

  Dena was now fully aware that Kenny had been the one responsible for Winnie’s injuries, and for once had no idea how to deal with the matter. Winnie insisted that she say nothing, was in fact adamant on the subject.

  ‘Didn’t you always say it was far safer to remain invisible?’

  ‘Yes, but I was wrong. You should always seek justice. And you should most definitely always speak up when you’re being bullied.’

  ‘Setting yourself up against Kenny Garside might not
be such a good idea though. He would only exact even more punishment.’

  ‘But that’s exactly the reason why you should. If we don’t stop him, he’ll go on and do it to other people too.’

  ‘Aye, but his mam is a powerful lady on this market, and your future mother-in-law.’

  ‘There’s little danger of that happening now. Carl hasn’t spoken to me in days. He goes out of his way to avoid me. It’s so awful!’ Although Dena admitted that they’d had a bad quarrel, she wouldn’t tell Winnie what it had been about. Not until she’d worked out the true significance of his reaction to Kenny’s accusation in her own mind, she really had no wish to talk about it any further. Even talking about it to Barry had been a mistake, and she’d bound him to secrecy.

  She still couldn’t bring herself to believe that Carl was the one responsible for Pete’s death. Could it have been Kenny? Was Carl protecting his brother? Winnie’s next words seemed to give some credence to this theory.

  ‘You do know that Kenny has been running a protection racket?’ Winnie raised her eyebrows in a rueful acknowledgement of her own foolishness in standing up to him. ‘That’s why he thumped me, because I wouldn’t kowtow to his bullying. He claims to offer security, including one of his expensive burglar alarms, in return for a regular monthly payment. And if you don’t pay up, then your stall suffers from a mysterious number of break-ins. You don’t have to be Brain of Britain to work out why.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness. Winnie, I’d no idea. But I thought this security business of his was all legal and above-board.’

  ‘Pigs might fly.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘I didn’t want to put any more worries on your shoulders. I thought I could handle him, daft cluck that I am. The Higginson sisters are paying him a small fortune every month, as are many of the other stall-holders. He even controls the combination they use on the new safe they had fitted. The poor souls are so hard up they’re actually talking of selling up and leaving the market.’