Denny and Babs had been best friends since school, since the time Babs had chased off a group of kids taunting Denny about her torn second-hand dress. Babs hated bullies. The first time she’d taken Denny home, her mum hadn’t been happy. But it had nothing to do with the poor girl; Rosie thought her stepdad was an ‘utter bollocks skiver.’ But Denny’s gentle well-mannered ways had soon won Rosie over.
‘What’s up? You look like a proper wet weekend,’ Babs said as she sat down. Denny already had a glass of Babycham with a glacé cherry lined up for her. Babs wasn’t much of a drinker, her dad having lectured her for years about the evils of the demon drink, but she did like a bevvy with a bit of fizz.
Denny smiled; it was her way to be sunny and happy most of the time, but there was no hiding from Babs. She could see that something bad had happened.
‘Is it your bloody stepdad again?’ That man had been giving her poor mate grief since the day he’d slipped a ring on her mother’s finger.
Denny’s face paled, which worried Babs. ‘He ain’t belting you one, is he?’ If he was, Babs was going to go around to Denny’s and give him what for.
But Denny brushed her off. She whispered, ‘What did the doctor say? You’ve been keeping yourself scarce for a week.’
She was right. Usually Babs would’ve been on the blower to Denny straight off, but this time she’d wanted some space first to absorb all the changes in her life. She looked around to make sure no one was earwigging and then turned back and nodded.
Denny’s mouth fell open. ‘Hell’s bells, Babs. What you going to do?’
‘I’m four months gone so there ain’t nuthin’ I can do except have the baby.’
Denny frowned. ‘But it’s Neville’s kid.’
‘I know it’s his kid—’
‘I mean is he’s . . . you know . . .’ Denny mouthed, ‘Black.’
Babs didn’t have a problem with that and she hoped her mate didn’t either. That would be so disappointing.
Denny went on, ‘What are your mum and dad going to say?’
Babs took a large gulp of her drink, the sweet bubbles bursting on her tongue. ‘I’ve already told them about the baby.’ Denny’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. ‘My mum was proper pissed, but she didn’t do her nut and my dad’s already come around.’
‘And—?’
Babs shook her head. ‘I ain’t told them about that yet.’
‘But I don’t get it, those pills I gave you should’ve sorted you out.’
‘There must’ve been something up with them, or Neville was packing some super spunk.’
They both howled with laughter. Babs knew it was no laughing matter, but it felt good to indulge in a little tickle again. God knows the life she had stretching before her wasn’t going to be a stroll in the park.
‘Is Neville going to do right by you?’ Denny asked as she finished her drink.
All Babs’ anger at the rotten pig came flooding back. And the humiliation. She felt ashamed to have to admit that some man had made a right monkey out of her.
‘The bastard’s nowhere to be found. Plus, he was two-timing me behind my back while he had me on my back.’
‘I ain’t surprised. He tried to cop off with me when you went into the loo at the Reno.’
Babs fixed her friend with a furious gaze. ‘You what? Why the bloody heck didn’t you let me know? No way would I have given him an in if I’d known he was chasing after you as well.’
‘I didn’t want to disappoint you. You looked so happy.’ Denny tugged nervously at her bottom lip.
That was the problem with Denny, always wanting to keep everything hunky dory. That sweet trusting nature of hers was going to get her into big time bovver one of these days.
‘Hold up,’ she said with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Geezer alert at four o’clock.’
Babs looked over on the sly and checked him out.
Both women giggled and said as one: ‘Chirpy, chirpy, cheep, cheep,’ which was their way of saying the stranger was a tasty sort. Still, to Babs, he didn’t have a patch on Stanley Miller. Which reminded her . . .
‘It ain’t all bad news. I started a top job up West today.’
‘The West End?’ Denise practically had stars in her eyes. Up West was a big exciting world for both of them. They didn’t go there often, most of the time preferring to stay local, but when they did venture into town they were like two kids in a sweetie shop. ‘You haven’t got a gig in one of the department stores?’
Babs shook her head. ‘It’s in Soho.’
Denny frowned, clearly worried. ‘It ain’t dodgy, is it? I hear it’s full of dirty old geezers with wrinkled knobs.’
Babs thought about handsome Stan Miller, looking natty in his business suit. Stan, a dirty old man? Wrinkled dinkle? Not bloody likely. ‘It’s a reception job in a modelling agency—’
‘Get away,’ Denise trilled in disbelief. ‘A flippin’ modelling agency?’
Babs pushed her chest out. Her best mate no longer felt sorry for her, but was green with envy. ‘It’s all above board. The man running the outfit, Stanley Miller, is a total gent. He knew Neville was a wrong ’un so he took me on to help me out.’
But Denny was lost in her own world. She softly breathed, ‘I’ve always wanted to be a model. Everyone keeps telling me I’ve got the looks for it.’ She looked desperately at Babs. ‘You couldn’t put in a word with this Stanley and fix me up with a job? I could get my own place then.’
Although Babs said she’d see what she could do, secretly she wasn’t so sure. She’d only done one day’s graft there and remembering that Mickey made her tummy churn. She didn’t want to land her mate in the crapper if the place turned out to be part of the sleazy cesspit her dad said all Soho was.
Eleven
‘Tra-la-la boom dee-yay.
My knickers flew away.
They came back yesterday.
I didn’t know what to say.’
A group of girls sang happily as they skipped a few feet away from the house where Mel Ingram was mixing Bacardi into baby Tommy’s bottle. That should shut the little bleeder up. He had a gob on him that Aretha Franklin would kill for and it was driving her around the twist. Even though she’d shut him up in the bedroom she could still hear him going at it.
Mel was fed up with having to live in the poxy East End. Her Mickey had his fingers in property all over the place but where did he plonk his nearest and dearest? In a two-up, two-down in Shadwell, round the back of the bloody Highway. She was getting sick to death of it. Mickey had better get his head set on moving them up in the world.
‘Mum, can I have some cheese and onion crisps?’ asked her eldest, four-year-old Donna. She was sitting on the eye-watering patterned lino in the hallway, playing with a doll. Her face and hands were sticky from the blackcurrant jam sarnie Mel had made for her a half hour ago.
‘I only fed you a while ago and still you want more. Fucking greedy, that’s what you are.’ She bent down and peered in the little girl’s face. ‘Repeat after me, “I’m a greedy girl.”’
Little Donna looked up happily. ‘I’m a greedy girl.’
Mel couldn’t stand the sight of her daughter and the reason was simple – she was the spit of her father, in ways as well as looks. Always grasping for more and with an empty noodle on her shoulders.
Mel ground her teeth as she fed the baby – who guzzled down his milk – and waited for Mickey. What was taking the big ape such a long time? All he had to do was tell that rat bastard Stan who was running the show. It reminded her of all the times she’d waited patiently while Stan Miller made a monkey of Mickey in that modelling agency he ran. Or, as she preferred to think of it, Mickey’s modelling agency that Stan had mysteriously taken over.
The longer she waited, the more likely it was that Miller was running rings around the wally again. Mel had given Mickey a simple task – tell Mister Fancy Pants that his brother Pete was out of the business. Simple. But nothing was simple with Mickey.
He was a bang-up geezer, but he was unbelievably thick. He knew how to give a bloke a good hiding but as soon as anyone started using long words, he was all at sea. No bloody wonder she had to do the thinking for both of them.
She’d been down the boozer on the day that smug wide boy had first asked Mickey if he could find Pete a position because his brother was at a bit of a loose end.
Of course Mickey had said yes. ‘I could use someone down at the knocking—’
Mr Wriggly had jumped in quick. ‘That’s alright, bruv, I don’t need to know the details. Just find him something to do.’
Mel had said with a sneer, ‘what’s the matter, Stan? Is Mickey’s side of the business beneath you? Too busy having tea up the Ritz with Little Lord Fauntleroy to worry about where the real money is coming from?’
Mickey had put his oar in. ‘Oh come on luv, that’s not fair, is it?’
Stan had paused for a moment and cracked, ‘Oh, don’t you worry, face ache. I know exactly where the money’s coming from.’
And that was another thing she couldn’t stand about Stan. The way he called her ‘mad bird’, ‘Aunt Doris’, ‘droopy drawers’ and any other little put-downs he could think of to avoid using her real name.
But she wasn’t going to take it like Mickey did. ‘And how is your brother? Still like a snifter in his Sugar Puffs?’
Stan puffed on one of the stinking foreign fags he smoked to prove he was cooler than anyone else. ‘Pete likes a drink now and again. So do I. So does Mickey. And let’s be honest, bird, so do you. I seem to recall us having to carry you out of Hammersmith Palais when you’d had a sherbet too far. Wasn’t that the night you threatened to clobber a copper? I’m sure it was.’
Mickey had laughed his stupid head off, the cretin. That was loyalty for you.
Mel had stared at the pair of them, beaming at each other like schoolboys. That was another thing she resented about Stan. He was a bit too close to her husband for her liking. She knew they went way back and had been through a lot together but she was still suspicious. If it wasn’t for Mickey demanding his conjugals off her twice a week on Tuesdays and Saturdays, she might even have suspected there was something a bit funny going on between them. Soho was notorious for that sort of thing.
‘As long as he’s not going to show my Mickey up.’
‘He can handle his booze.’
Mel shook her head. ‘Dream on. Your brother’s piss has so much alcohol in it I’m surprised he doesn’t drink it.’
Mel had been proved right as usual. Pete had hardly arrived at Mickey’s place down in Mile End with a brief to keep the punters sweet and everything ship-shape before he was causing all kinds of mayhem. By tea time he was usually unconscious somewhere, so the girls and their customers were left in peace, but by midnight he was up and about, like Dracula, costing them business. Mel had had enough. She was determined Pete was going. And Stan along with him.
Seething at the memories, she looked up to find Mickey coming through the doorway with Donna in his arms. She hadn’t even heard him come in. He seemed pleased with himself. He whispered in his daughter’s ear, loud enough for his wife to hear, ‘Daddy’s been a very good boy and got the job done.’
The child giggled, making Mel hate her even more. Sometimes she thought Mickey loved that kid more than he did her.
‘Hop it,’ Mel ordered Donna roughly. She put the now-sleeping baby down.
‘You got some tea in the offing?’ Mickey asked.
‘Fuck your dinner. Has Pete been shown the door?’
‘Yeah, Stan’s going round his mum’s later and he’ll speak to Pete then.’
Mel needed to hear him say it in black and white. ‘To tell him he’s got the boot?’
That wiped the smile right off his face. ‘Well, yeah . . . Well, not exactly — I mean he’s got to give the geezer a last chance, hasn’t he? It’s his flesh and blood.’
Mel rose to her full height, her face contorted with rage. ‘Last chance? What’s the matter with you?’ She stomped out into the passage to put on her mink. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll break the news to him myself.’
Mickey’s big paw gripped her arm and he marched her into the sitting room and shoved her down onto the settee. ‘No, you won’t. I don’t need any bird to do my work for me. I’ve told Stan straight. Any more trouble with Pete and I’ll park his bum on the street myself. That’s final. Stan understands and he won’t create. Now then – what about some nosh?’
Mel decided to leave it; she knew when she couldn’t go too far. ‘Give Bev a little tinkle for me. She can give us the lowdown on what’s happening in that office of his. Anyhow, I haven’t seen her for a while, we can catch up.’
Mickey avoided her eyes. ‘Bev? Nah, we can’t do that. Bev’s left.’
Mel realised straight away what had happened. Her anger wasn’t hot any more, it was cold, steely and quiet. ‘He’s given her the push, hasn’t he? Your own cousin and he’s sacked her without so much as a by your leave. Who the hell gave him the right to do that? I know Bev can be a bit of a handful but Stan’s taking the piss. You can see that, can’t you? He’s laughing at you.’
To her surprise Mickey started looking like he was finally putting that brain of his to use. His next words were music to her ears. ‘Yeah. I can’t pretend I was very happy about it . . . Stan’s got a bit up himself lately . . . got a little cheeky.’
Mel drew breath. ‘It’s not just Pete we need to get rid of. It’s his brother as well. And we need to do it fast, before he does it to us. That means we need to find out exactly what Stan’s up to.’
‘Oh yeah? And how are we going to do that?’
Mel’s mouth hardened into a grim line. ‘You leave that to me.’
Twelve
‘Go on then! You trying to get me?’
Even before the door at his brother’s local had closed behind him, Stan knew a ruck was either starting or finishing. It was that kind of pub. And he knew Pete would be in the thick of it. He was that kind of bloke. A drunk and a brawler.
Despite that, his older brother was the only human being Stan truly loved. As a youngster, Pete had been more of a man than a boy, protecting Stan when their drunk dad beat them and sticking up for Stan when it would have been safer to have kept his head down. Stan had idolised Pete. Now their roles had reversed; Pete more boy than man, veering between sozzled fists and self-pity. Deep in his heart, it hurt Stan to see his beloved Pete turning into their old man.
The place wasn’t packed, so it was easy for Stan to zero in on his brother. There he was, foaming at the mouth, squaring up to two geezers at the bar. Both men looked like proper toughs, eager to get in on what passed for entertainment in this spit-and-sawdust gin palace.
Stan walked up to Pete, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him backwards. ‘Oi, I want a word with you.’ He turned to the two monkeys gearing themselves for a punch- up and declared in a bored tone, ‘The fight’s off, duty calls.’
But the two blokes weren’t having it. They gave him the once-over and one wrinkled his face. ‘If you’re looking for a gay boy’s pub, there’s one up the road.’
His mate sniggered, ‘Nah, I reckon this bloke here’s the boyfriend – he obviously ain’t that fussy.’
Pete lunged at him but Stan had a tight grip on him like a dog on a chain. The other punters went silent, waiting to see where this was going and when to dive for cover. Stan smiled at the two Herberts. ‘Sorry, lads, not today. If you want a beating why don’t you go and bang your heads on the toilet wall. Cut out the middle man?’
But they weren’t letting go. ‘I’ll say this for your boyfriend. At least he’s up for it – he’s not a bottle job.’
Stan looked around the pub. He didn’t recognise anyone but he couldn’t be sure word wouldn’t spread that he’d ducked out of a fight. He didn’t care what anyone thought, but he knew that was bad for business. Anyway, he could always buy a new suit. He was good for it. He let go of Pete’s collar a
nd reached for a chair. ‘Alright then, you wankers!’
The other customers got out of the way as he swung the chair in a quick arc. It smashed into the neck of the first guy, who crashed into the second like a skittle at a bowling alley. He’d found extreme force, loud noise and the virtue of surprise was always the key to a successful rumble. While they reeled with shock, Stan moved in to take advantage. He punched the second guy in the face so he fell backwards and took a bottle from the bar to club the first over the head.
Pete was weaving around like Andy Pandy, throwing aimless punches that weren’t connecting with anything or anyone. Stan pushed him out of the way. The second guy still had a bit left in him so Stan bashed the chair against the bar until a leg came off and hit his cheek with his makeshift baton. The guy’s face broke and cracked, sending a spray of blood across Stan’s jacket like the foam from a champagne bottle.
Stan looked at his jacket in disgust and whacked him again. ‘That’s for the fucking dry cleaning bill.’
Stan was satisfied with his work but it wasn’t quite over yet. He still had one more dickhead to go. He grabbed Pete by his lapels and dragged him out of the pub.
Pete was angry and resisting all the way. ‘Come on, we ain’t done yet. Let’s take them all on. Make a proper ding-dong of it.’
Stan rammed him against a brick wall. ‘You really are a little prick. Have you got nothing better to do with your time than pick fights in pubs? You’re worse than the old man.’ He pulled him away from the wall and began frog-marching him down the road. ‘Now, I wanna word with you and you’re going to listen for once.’
All the spit and fire drained out of Pete. He knew when his brother was serious.
‘Pete! Petey! What the fuck’s happened?’ an alarmed Shell Miller barked as she clocked her two sons on her doorstep.
Shell Miller lived near the Londoner in Limehouse. That was how people identified where they were, not by the place’s actual name but by a well-known nearby pub. The Londoner was Limehouse, the Blind Beggar, Whitechapel, the Boleyn meant Upton Park and Princess Alice signified Forest Gate.
Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series) Page 6