by Mary Gibson
‘You’ve done everything you could. Don’t start blaming yourself, Tom.’
She knew how much he hated seeing his once strong father fade away, chased out of his job and his dignity by the deepening Depression. She held him for a long time, wishing she could make it easier for him, but there was no ease to be had. His father was dying for reasons beyond any of their control. The Crash of twenty-nine had certainly sent Matty’s life into a spiral, but over the past three years the effects had rippled out, reaching every part of the globe, including the small corner of the world where Tom’s father was its latest casualty.
Much as she would have liked to stay and comfort Tom, Matty had promised Neville a performance and was reluctant to let him down. As she’d told Tom, Neville was happy to share his taxi with her. He’d promised to perform songs from his latest play and Matty was to accompany him, part of Neville’s growing campaign to chip away at her enforced semi-retirement. Tonight the place was packed as always, but she could see there were more than the usual after-theatre crowd. There was a large contingent of Neville’s theatre friends, but also a table of non-regulars that Matty hadn’t seen before, wearing expensive suits and extravagant jewellery. Neville said they were here to listen to her.
‘Soon the Blue Lotus won’t be able to hold all your fans, Matty dear, and you’ll have to let Esme book you bigger venues. It’s criminal for that lovely voice to remain so closeted.’
She’d grown fond of Neville. She believed his interest in reviving her career was genuine and the truth was she enjoyed singing with him. His light, clever songs were a welcome contrast to the heavier torch songs she’d been performing.
Once they’d begun, the chattering diminished, apart from the table where the new crowd sat. Matty hadn’t played the Star for so many years without being able to sing to noisy audiences. She shut them out of her mind and out of her sight, focusing on the intent faces of those she could see, lit by the footlights of the tiny stage. But a movement caught the corner of her eye, distracting her so that she fluffed a lyric, which only Neville seemed to notice. Someone had joined the rowdy table and a flicker of recognition jolted through her brain like an electric shock. Something about the tall figure, the tilt of the head, the effortless gliding walk, the easy way he slid into his seat and crossed his legs, all in a second had impacted her attention and frozen the blood in her veins.
22
Protection
April–May 1932
She was trapped. She couldn’t run from the stage. Pinned by the spotlight, she carried on singing. Only Neville could tell that the power had drained from her voice and only she knew that her stomach had turned inside out, that her heart was bursting through her chest and that the air was raking at her lungs. Her legs were not supporting her; they were water. Only her tight grip on the microphone stand was keeping her from falling off the stage. She allowed herself the briefest glance in Frank’s direction and found his dark, fathomless eyes fixed on her. The room lurched and she thought she might throw up all over the elegantly dressed young couple seated at the front table. Instead she looked desperately at Neville who, she could hear, was winding down from the final chorus, bringing the set to an early end, with a look of gaunt incomprehension on his face. But she didn’t want the set to end, for the stage was now both her prison and her protection. While she was up here, he could not touch her.
Neville played the final chords of ‘I’ll See You Again’, and the applause told her the crowd hadn’t noticed that during the last song she’d been entirely absent. Neville grabbed her arm for the final bow, hissing in her ear. ‘What was all that about, Matty darling, you never have stage fright!’
She took his hand, using it to steady her trembling. She smiled broadly and leaned to kiss him, whispering, ‘It’s not stage fright. Someone just walked in that I don’t want to see.’
They bowed together and headed for the door to the dressing room. She gave a backward glance and saw Frank get up and cross the floor in a few easy strides. In seconds he was standing between her and Neville. She had forgotten how tall he was. Now he filled her vision, a broad-shouldered, powerful-looking man, muscles evident beneath the immaculate cut of his sharp suit. She saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall, the square chin, cleft darkly shadowed where he could never quite reach with the razor. She knew that her only protection against this man had been his infatuation with her. The minute that had vanished she’d become little more than prey.
‘Hello, Frank,’ she said, surprised that her voice sounded so normal.
‘Matty.’ His smile revealed sharp edges of pearl-white teeth. ‘I really have missed you.’
The eyes were meant to reveal the soul, and now she wondered why it hadn’t troubled her more that when she looked into Frank’s dark eyes she’d only ever seen passion or anger.
Neville glided back into view, an ineffectual bright bird, unaware a hawk was circling the sky.
‘Introduce us, Matty darling.’
Frank turned a straight face to him. ‘We’re having a conversation.’
Neville smiled nervously. ‘I do beg your pardon,’ he said, retreating, leaving Matty alone with Frank.
‘Yeah, let’s talk, why don’t we?’ Frank said affably, as though the idea had just occurred to him. ‘Talk about old times, eh, Matty?’ But his grip was vice-like on her arm and he steered her to the bar, where he ordered her a Gibson and a bourbon for himself.
‘So, people tell me you’re doin’ well.’ His teeth snapped shut, Adam’s apple bobbed as the bourbon went down. ‘I have to hear it from other people. I have to hear it out of the blue from some nutty English professor called Dibbs, Dobbs, whatever, ’cause I don’t hear it from you. Two years, I don’t hear nothin’ from you. Why is that, Matty?’ He tipped his head to one side, and pushed the cocktail towards her. ‘Drink it, don’t insult me.’
Her hands were clasped in her lap. She wrenched one free and picked up the glass, which trembled slightly and knocked against her teeth. The oily drink coated her throat and she stopped herself from gagging. All her fine vows to be unafraid, where had they gone? And then she asked herself, what could he do to her? He could kill her, but would that be so bad? Would that be worse than living her life stalked by his shadow?
‘You know why, Frank.’
‘No, I honestly don’t.’ He brushed a piece of lint from his trouser leg. ‘I want you to tell me, why, after I give you everything, you think you can walk out on me, leave me without a word?’ His voice was even and low, with a stabbing intensity that deepened with every iteration. ‘You never wrote, you, never called me... You hurt my feelings.’ He gave a wounded little-boy look, which she once might have thought was genuine. But in an instant it turned to stone. ‘Nobody walks out on Frank Rossi. I thought you understood that.’
She understood. She understood that his pride would never have allowed him to leave her alone to live her life. There was always going to be a reckoning. And today was that day. She nodded her head.
‘I invested in you, Matty. It was good business for a while, you and me, some very profitable films we made, remember those?’ His leering smile told Matty he was not referring to London Affair. ‘But the speakeasy days are numbered. We still got protection rackets goin’ on, but I’ll be honest, Matty, business is bad.’ He spread empty palms in front of her, like an apologetic businessman looking for a bank loan. ‘So – I need you back.’ He reached up and ran a perfectly manicured fingernail down her cheek. ‘I want you back, Matty.’
She realized that the rowdy, expensively dressed crowd in the corner had gone quiet, watching their exchange. Some of the men had turned towards them, sitting on the edge of their seats. Clerkenwell mob probably, or his own boys, brought with him from America. She had no choice. She stood up to go with him. There was nothing else she could do.
Frank looked over in the direction of his boys and gave a small smile of triumph.
‘Don’t worry about those clowns. They took it too far. Really, Ma
tty, I don’t want to make it hard for you, with all your high-class friends and your good works. I read in the paper about one of them films you made. Fresh Air and Fun? Your do-gooder friends don’t need to know what sort of fun we used to have, eh, Matty? I told the Sabini boys they shouldn’t have threatened you. It’s not necessary, is it, Matty?’
She shook her head and swallowed. ‘No, Frank, it’s not necessary,’ she said meekly.
She laid her beaded evening bag on the bar. ‘I just need to go to the ladies.’
He stood up, a look of smug certainty on his face, knowing that she’d do as she was told. His eyes followed her as she pushed through the door leading to the dressing room.
Neville was waiting for her in the passage, white-faced. ‘Is that Frank Rossi?’
Matty nodded. ‘How do you know about him?’
‘Tom told me to look out for him, to let him know if he ever turned up. Surely you’re not thinking of going off with him?’
‘Am I buggery! Can you get me out of here, Neville?’
‘I certainly can, darling.’ Neville grabbed her hand. ‘Out this way, come on.’
‘No, not the back door. Frank’s bound to have someone there. Is there a window?’ She was panicking, Frank wouldn’t wait for long.
Neville nodded his head decisively. ‘Through here, now!’
He led her to a small salon, used for private parties. A heavily shaded lamp was suspended above an oval table covered in green baize cloth.
‘The poker room,’ Neville explained, leading her to a sofa set against the back wall, which he quickly shoved to one side. ‘Sometimes our members need a quick getaway.’ She was looking at a low door, which Neville pushed open. ‘It’s not a cupboard,’ he answered her puzzled look. ‘It actually leads into a side alley, go to the end and turn left into Piccadilly. I’ll let Tom know. Go now!’
She kissed him quickly and ducked through the door. A short passageway led to another door which was bolted. Quickly slamming back the bolt, she pushed open the door, peering up and down the alley, making sure no one had been posted there. It was empty. She saw the lights of Piccadilly and dashed towards the end of the alley. Traffic was still fairly heavy and black cabs cruised past, touting for custom. But she had no money for a cab. She’d left her bag on the bar, thinking it would seem more convincing to Frank if she went without it. Standing in Piccadilly, wearing her long silver evening gown, without coat or hat, she began to attract attention. Passers-by stared and a drunk in evening dress blocked her path. She pushed him away and walked hurriedly towards Piccadilly Circus. She saw a short, dumpy figure in a trilby and dark suit coming out of the side street leading to the Blue Lotus. It was one of Frank’s men and he had spotted her. She broke into a sprint. Weaving in and out of the late-night crowd, she dashed across the road, heedless of traffic. Her long legs were impeded by the narrow gown, so she picked it up above her knees and raced towards Haymarket – if she could only reach Leicester Square first, she might have a chance of reaching a safe haven.
As she ran, she allowed herself a quick look back – the short-legged man was lagging well behind. He had obviously been no match for her. She didn’t let up her pace, but careened into Leicester Square, careless of the odd looks she attracted. The square was still crowded with people coming out of late film shows and restaurants. Here she could blend in and slowing down a little, she ducked down a side alley and into a little courtyard, her chest heaving. She stopped outside a narrow door, panting for breath and trembling. She slammed the knocker loudly and continuously. ‘Be in, be in,’ she prayed in rhythm to the knocking.
The darkness of the little court was suddenly relieved by a glow from an upstairs window. Matty knocked even louder and finally the door was flung open mid-knock.
‘For Christ’s sake, I’m here!’ Esme stood open-mouthed with shock. She looked a fright, her hair frizzed into a ball, bare of make-up and wrapped in an old dressing gown, which looked as if it had belonged to her grandfather. ‘Good God, Matty!’
‘I’m sorry, Esme. Can I come in? I really need your help.’
Esme ushered her quickly up the narrow staircase to her top-floor flat adjoining the office, where Matty explained what had happened. Esme sat her down and threw a blanket across her shoulders, for she was shivering with shock and the effort of her flight. Esme handed her a brandy.
‘It was only a matter of time.’ Esme was pacing the floor, taking occasional sips of her own brandy. ‘Listen, Matty, I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here. If he tried to abduct you, or whatever it was he intended, I can’t see him stopping now... and they know where I am.’
Matty jumped up. ‘You’re right, Esme. I don’t want to put you in any danger!’
But the woman laid a restraining hand on her arm. ‘I’m not frightened of that. I just think we should get you somewhere they wouldn’t think of looking. Not your brother’s... What about Tom’s, would they know about him?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Best go to him tonight.’
There was a sound in the courtyard below and both women froze, but the clattering of a dustbin lid and a long miaow followed. Matty knew Esme was talking sense and she’d certainly feel safer with Tom tonight. He’d obviously been rallying the troops behind her back for a very long time, setting up his very own ‘protection’ operation, with her as its object. Perhaps he’d have a better plan in place than her own, which at the moment was simply to run and hide.
‘All right, I’ll go to Tom’s. But, Esme, I’ll have to borrow the fare. I haven’t got a penny on me.’
Within minutes she was leaning back in the safety of a black cab, wearing Esme’s coat.
‘Where to?’ the cabby asked.
‘Bermondsey,’ she said.
‘Sorry, love, I’m just going home for the night, other way,’ he said apologetically.
‘London Bridge then?’
Seeming satisfied with the less threatening destination, even though it was still south of the river, he flicked the meter. ‘Right you are,’ he said and pulled out into the line of cars streaming down towards Charing Cross. He kept to the north side of the river, shooting along the Embankment, strung with lamps that sent pillars of light rippling across the dark Thames. Eventually they came to the heavy-set, darkened banks and offices of the City and turned southward across London Bridge.
When the taxi pulled into London Bridge Station forecourt, she chanced it. ‘Could you take me a bit further, just as far as Tooley Street?’
The cabbie raised his eyes and shook his head.
‘Oh, come on, you’ll be all right there, it’s hardly Hickman’s Folly!’ she said, naming one of the more notorious streets along the river with a reputation for housing criminals.
The cabbie reluctantly took her on and she tipped him generously for his trouble with Esme’s money, thinking of the next poor stranded traveller who needed to get home south of the river late at night. Tom lived in the basement of a house behind Devon Mansions, a large tenement block stretching along Tooley Street. She hurried down the basement steps, shivering in spite of Esme’s coat, and praying that Tom would be home from visiting his dad. But there was no answer to her knocking and the only sounds were of a couple arguing in the flat above and the howling of a dog from further down the street. She leaned her back against Tom’s door, sinking in despair to the front step. She didn’t feel that she could push her body another inch and she contemplated curling up in the shadowy trench of the airey, grateful at least for its sheltering walls. But then an idea struck her. She had mentioned Hickman’s Folly to the taxi driver as a less than salubrious destination. She wasn’t that far from it now and it occurred to her it might be an unlikely place of sanctuary for her tonight. Besides, she needed to keep moving and it was worth a try.
As she hurried away from Devon Mansions, towards Dockhead, she realized she wasn’t sure what number she was looking for, but she was pretty certain if she knocked at any house in Hickman’s Foll
y she’d be pointed in the right direction. In the moonlight she rounded the long finger of stagnant water that was St Saviour’s Dock and passed the Swan and Sugar Loaf pub on the corner of Hickman’s Folly. She knocked on the first house in the long narrow alley. A young man answered the door.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you at this time of night, but could you tell me which house Stan Sweeting lives in?’
For an instant she thought he would close the door in her face. ‘Sugar?’
Matty nodded.
‘Who are you?’ The young man licked his lips. ‘I don’t want no trouble.’
‘It’s all right, I’m a friend of his. I just forgot his house number.’
‘If there’s any trouble, don’t tell him it was me told you where to find him, will ya?’
Matty promised there would be no trouble and the young man pointed her to Sugar’s house. She felt sorry for the boy. She wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of Sugar either.
The house was towards the end of Hickman’s Folly. It looked one of the least cared for, with a couple of panes in the front sash window blocked up with cardboard. The door had been kicked in at one point, for planks of wood were nailed across it at odd angles. There was no knocker, so Matty banged on one of the more solid panels with her fist. She heard a scuffling sound coming from the window and thought she saw curtains move and a figure peep through one of the dirty panes. Soon she heard the unlocking of bolts.
‘’Kin ’ell gel, get in here, you’ll draw attention!’
Sugar pulled her into the unlit passage, slammed and bolted the door, and with a jerk of his head indicated that she should go into the back room. She was immediately struck by the contrast to the outside of the house. The room was as smart as the outside was shabby. The amount of light hurt her eyes, The room was full of lamps and modern, garish furniture, a fan-shaped radio gramophone in one corner and a black and brass cocktail cabinet in the other. Then she realized that the table was aglitter with jewellery: silver and gold bracelets, necklaces strung with precious gems, diamonds and ruby rings glowing yellow and claret. It was like an Aladdin’s cave and the shock must have shown on her face.