by Mary Gibson
‘Then how could you?’
He got up, and though she clung to his arm, he prised her hand away. ‘It’s time that man was dealt with so we can get on with our lives. My dad sat in this room and let other people decide how his life would be and how it would end. I won’t do the same, Matty. So maybe Frank is a dangerous man, but Bermondsey’s got her own Italians...’ He reached for her hand and rested it on the nape of his own neck. ‘I reckon I might need a haircut – what do you think?’
‘You’re going to Minetti’s?’
Minetti had been the local barber for as long as Matty could remember. His shop with the red and white striped pole outside had been a regular port of call for all the men and boys in her family. ‘Ask for a tuppeny all off’ was her mother’s injunction to Sam and Charlie, and then later Nellie’s to Bobby and Freddie, before sending them off with the two brown pennies to wait their turn along with all the other little Bermondsey boys sitting on Minetti’s bench. As they grew older, Minetti offered them much more than a haircut – everything from advice on how to look after themselves on the tough Bermondsey streets to explaining the mysteries of a ‘packet of three’, which she remembered Charlie divulging to her in whispered guilt one day when she’d found them in his pocket.
Minetti told them stories of ‘back home’. Its hard men, much harder, he said, than the Elephant Boys, hinting that he’d once played his part, using the razor for more than cutting hair in his misspent youth. But if any of his young customers ever threatened to join the gang’s ranks, he would frighten them half to death with tales of dead men he’d once known who’d followed a similar path. Now, Minetti in his old age was an affable man, with thinning dark hair and a still pronounced Italian accent. He was fond of saying his wife had tamed him, but to look at him you’d hardly think he’d ever needed taming. These days, he insisted, he was retired from all but barbering. But today, Matty was sure of one thing. Tom didn’t need a haircut and he wouldn’t be going to Minetti’s to ask for a tuppeny all off.
24
The Cat and the Canary
June–July 1932
Matty went back to ‘the vicarage’ that night and Queenie assured her she could stay under the protection of the Forty Elephants for as long as she needed to. Matty had no idea what Tom’s business with the barber Minetti would mean for her, but he’d asked her to trust him and to wait for him to send word. She almost felt as if she’d taken the veil and been banished to a cloister for criminal nuns. For though the girls liked a drink, they seemed too frightened of Queenie to be so raucous as to draw attention to the household. To the outside world, they passed as respectable hardworking single women, who were well enough off to own smart cars and dress in expensive clothes. They went off to work in the West End every day and never had gentlemen staying overnight. Queenie kept strict house rules, with them all taking turns for housekeeping and cooking.
She patiently spent the following day in cloistered seclusion while the girls were out working. But by the time they came home Matty was so bored that she asked to be let in on the sewing circle, which Queenie at first refused.
‘You could get nicked just for taking the labels out, you know,’ she warned.
‘I’m already in the nick!’ Matty complained.
‘All right then,’ Queenie said reluctantly. ‘You can join in, but you’ll have to sing for your supper.’
So that evening Matty sat unpicking labels and singing the girls’ requests. They had a taste for the more sentimental old tunes, which Matty remembered from her music hall days. ‘Mother I Love You’ and ‘Pal o’ My Cradle Days’ were special favourites, and Matty felt her heart warm towards her unlikely audience, none of whom, she suspected, had ever had the kind of mother who might deserve such paeans of praise.
The only one she couldn’t warm to was Dolly dark-eyes, as she was known by the girls. Matty was unsettled by the kohl-rimmed eyes staring at her as she sang and she hoped she never found herself alone with the girl.
After another day with no news from Tom and nothing to do, Matty began to feel the same sort of confining panic she’d experienced during her final months with Frank. What good was it to have struggled so hard to escape him, only to allow him to force another incarceration upon her? In the early hours of the morning, she woke to a weight pressing on her chest and a pair of kohl-rimmed eyes staring into her face. She opened her mouth to cry out, but Dolly’s hand stifled her. Matty had drunk enough gin in her life to recognize the smell and when Dolly spoke, her voice was slurred.
‘Tom was my feller, a long time before you set your cap at him... woulda got back together an’all if it weren’t for you, you stuck-up bitch. I saw him after you pissed off and all of a sudden I wasn’t good enough.’ She shoved the hand on Matty’s chest down, till the breath was forced from her lungs. But as she gulped in air, Dolly’s other hand clamped even more tightly over her mouth. ‘Shut your fucking cockney canary gob—’ Dolly shoved again ‘and listen to me. I want you out. Sod off back to your Italian and leave Tom alone, and if you say a word to Winnie, I’ll carve up your face so no one’ll want ya!’ She shook Matty like a rag doll and stumbled out of the room.
Matty lay perfectly still until she heard the slamming of Dolly’s door. Then, shivering, and certain sleep would not come, she got up and prowled the draughty old house, finding herself at the high arched windows of the octagonal front room. She sat on the window seat, looking out at headlights flaring off early morning traffic in New Kent Road until the sky lightened to pewter and silver. She couldn’t help wondering what Tom had told Sam about her sudden disappearance – he would be so worried. And what about the film work? What would Tom say to the three musketeers? They were meant to be launching the Modern Woman films next week with a special screening in the Spa Road Library hall.
Her new life had been brought to a screeching halt by Frank’s emergence from the shadows and all the light she’d fought to let in over the past few years seemed to have dimmed. So much light had returned to her: the light in Tom’s eyes, the light of the flickering cinemotor screen, the spotlight at the Blue Lotus, all darkened now by the shades of her past mistakes. He’d even managed to subdue the renewed joy in singing. Frank had robbed her of so much, more than she’d ever admitted to anyone, but most of all he had stolen the light of her life, her child. She pressed her forehead against the glass and began slowly, softly, to beat her fist against the leaded windowpanes.
Queenie found her there, when she came down for breakfast. Matty, barefoot and shivering in a thin negligee of pink silk from which she had personally removed the Harrods label, looked up blankly as Queenie sat beside her on the window seat. The woman untied the cords of her own velvet dressing gown and draped the garment around Matty, who lowered her eyes, transfixed as Queenie tucked the velvet around her with gentle, huge hands, the strength of which she’d demonstrated to Matty only last night when she’d taken an apple and with a quick twist broken it in two, offering her half.
‘You’re climbing the walls, ain’t ya?’ Queenie said.
Matty nodded.
‘Why should it be me in prison?’ she asked. ‘I need to get out.’
‘I know what it’s like. First time I went inside, I wasn’t much more than a kid. I don’t shout about it much, but my gawd, I ended up banging me head against the cell walls. I’d a done anything to get out and I’ve made damn sure I never went back in. That’s why I’m so careful when I’m on a job and why I make sure all my girls are careful too.’ She studied Matty’s grey face and bruised eyes, then seemed to make a decision.
‘All right then, one trip out, but you’ll have to come over the other side with me and work, just like the rest of the girls do! Well, not exactly, ’cause I ain’t having Sugar blaming me for getting you banged up.’
Matty’s heart leaped at the chance of freedom, however short-lived and however dangerous. That morning she dressed, as Queenie instructed, in a chic belted dogtooth-check suit, and finished it off with her l
ead-brimmed black fedora, perched at as jaunty an angle as she could manage given the weight. She found she rather liked wearing the reinforced hat – she imagined it gave the sort of illusory protection that Sam must have felt when he was issued a tin helmet during the war.
Matty, Queenie and six other of the Forty Elephants walked round to the back of the vicarage, where Queenie’s blue coupé was parked along with two other powerful-looking cars. Queenie pointed to Ruby, Esther and Maisie, who all looked larger than they had at breakfast that morning. Their added girth wasn’t due to an excess of sausages and bacon, but because they were wearing coats double-lined with several deep pockets. They’d shown her how one elephant could fit a dozen dresses into these pockets, adding a fistful of jewellery into each leg of their bloomers. So what amount of booty seven of them might return with, Matty could only imagine. She knew Tom would be furious with her for going along with the escapade, but the part of her that was rebelling against constraint silenced her doubts.
‘You three go in the Humber. Me and Matty’s in the Alvis. Dolly, you take the others in the Vauxhall.’
Dolly glared at her. She looked the worse for wear, and her voice was husky with booze and cigarettes. ‘What’s she coming for?’ she challenged Queenie. ‘She’ll get us nicked!’ In two strides Queenie was on her, slamming her face against the side of the Vauxhall. When Dolly looked up, Matty saw dark rings blooming beneath her eyes.
‘Satisfied?’ Queenie asked, unruffled. ‘Now you’re Dolly effin’ black eyes, so leave her alone.’ She nodded towards Matty and opened the door of the blue coupé. ‘See you there, girls!’
Queenie drove at a sedate pace until the vicarage was out of sight and then put her foot down so suddenly that Matty’s head was thrown back against the seat. She zoomed past the Elephant and Castle Tube Station, heading for Waterloo Bridge, and on the way puffed at her cigarette holder, explaining the day’s ‘outing’. It appeared that Matty was joining the Forty Elephants on a steam raid in Oxford Street.
‘It all happens quick once you’re there, so keep up, stop when you’re told and move when you’re told!’ Queenie told her, adding that Matty would only be acting as lookout today and that when they reached the vantage spot where she was to stand, she would give Matty a sign. Her only job would be to alert the girls if a policeman came through the store’s revolving brass and glass entrance doors.
When they reached Selfridges, the day’s target, they parked the cars at the back of the shop and then walked in boldly through the front entrance, the girls fanning out, each heading for a different department. Queenie pointed her ruby-ringed index finger at a perfume counter nearest the main entrance and muttered, ‘Stand there. If you see a copper come through them doors, break the glass on that fire alarm with your hat. Got it?’
Matty nodded.
‘We’ll only be fifteen minutes, so when you see me beltin’ down them stairs, you grab on to me coat tails and don’t let go. Enjoy your shopping – I know I will!’ She winked and was gone, moving towards the staircase with easy strides, unbuttoning her coat as she went. Matty strolled over to the nearest glass-topped counter, picking up a small sample bottle of Atkinson’s Black Tulip. It was a scent that often wafted over from Atkinson’s factory to her house in Reverdy Road. She dabbed some perfume on to her wrist and inhaled. The intense sweet smell was like a distillation of home. She felt almost dizzy with longing and had the oddest sensation of being out of place and time. What was she doing here? She should be back in Bermondsey with Tom. But that wasn’t possible. Displaced from all that was familiar, anchorless, she realized that this escapade with the Forty Elephants was a case of allowing the tide to take her. And yet part of her had certainly wanted to come. She might not approve of her line of business, but she certainly admired Queenie’s tough independence and the way she took charge of everything in her life. She couldn’t ever imagine Queenie running away from Frank.
Matty glanced nervously at the entrance doors, relieved that the only uniformed figure in sight was the commissionaire ushering people in from Oxford Street. She strolled to the make-up counter. Politely refusing the help of a young assistant, she picked up a pretty enamelled Atkinson’s compact. Bright red poppies on a green background meant the fragrance must be California Poppy. Taking a deep breath, she noticed her hand trembled as it held the compact. She glanced at her watch. Queenie had only been gone ten minutes. Now Matty was regretting her stupid recklessness, wishing Queenie and the girls would hurry up. It was as she moved over to the lipsticks that she heard the commotion coming from the staircase – loud shouts and a woman’s shrill screaming. ‘Stop thief! Stop her!’
She wasn’t sure what to do. Queenie’s orders were to wait for her, but Matty’s legs were turning to water, and if she waited any longer she might not be able to walk out of here, let alone run after Queenie. The nearest sales assistant was now on the alert and Matty heard her shout across to the perfume counter. ‘Oh God, it’s the Forty Elephants. I’ve just seen a bobby pass the front doors, run out and get him!’
Then, turning a terrified face to Matty, the girl said, ‘I’m sorry, madam, but I’d advise you to move out of the way if you don’t want to get trampled in the crush. They’ll punch your lights out if you get in their way.’
Matty decided it was time to play her part. She ran to the fire alarm and taking off her fedora, smashed it into the glass. As she pressed the bell the store erupted around her, with customers and staff running off in all directions, tumbling over each other in an effort to reach the fire exits.
At that moment thunderous feet on the staircase announced Queenie’s arrival. She came into view pursued by a rotund young salesman who had no hope of keeping up. Matty saw the other girls converging from different areas of the store with almost military precision. Ruby was running towards her, grabbing handfuls of perfume bottles, stuffing them into her pockets without breaking stride. Esther emerged from the lift, her increased girth and the trail of taffeta frills revealing that her inner pockets were stuffed full of dresses.
‘Come on, Canary, move your arse!’ she shouted.
Matty needed no encouragement and as Queenie pounded past she sprinted after her, barrelling through the revolving doors straight into the arms of a truncheon-wielding policeman.
‘Excuse me, madam,’ he apologized, and before he could realize his mistake Queenie landed him a punch with her knuckle-dustered fist, quickly side-stepping round him.
The punch floored the constable, but he shot out a hand just as Matty scooted past. He grabbed her ankle and she tumbled heavily to the pavement, grazing hands and knees as she did so. Queenie, Esther and the other girls were already disappearing into the Oxford Street crowd by the time Matty lifted her chin from the pavement. But then Queenie stopped and looked back. On her command the girls halted as one and doubled back. Charging the constable, they threw themselves at him in a rugby scrum of flailing stockinged legs and stolen petticoats. Strings of pearls and gold chains dropped from Queenie’s pockets as she pinned him down with her knee, gasping instructions at Matty. ‘Mortimer Street... van waiting. Walk... don’t run!’ She pushed Matty in the right direction and when she hesitated, barked, ‘Go!’, galvanizing her into action.
Matty sprang up and off. Hugging the shopfronts, head down, she walked as quickly as she could against the tide of shoppers towards Oxford Circus. But it wasn’t long before she heard shrill policemen’s whistles and saw several constables running towards Selfridges. When Matty looked back a policeman was sitting on Queenie, who, bucking like a mule, was trying to kick him off. Matty was horrified to see several other burly uniformed figures surrounding the girls. It appeared that the stampede of the Forty Elephants’ elite brigade had been well and truly thwarted.
At Mortimer Street, Matty could see no waiting van. She walked up and down the street several times before giving up. The driver had probably realized the steam raid had gone wrong when the elephants missed their rendezvous time. She decided the only
thing to do was to return to the Forty Elephants’ den.
She took the Tube, standing all the way, holding on to the strap and rocking gently in the smoke-filled carriage, feeling sick and drained of all strength. At every stop she was expecting the transport police to board and cart her off. Once at the Elephant and Castle, she stumbled the short distance to the house, reaching it just as the late afternoon sun dipped below the steeply pitched gables. There was no answer to her knocking and she let fall the heavy metal knocker, resting her head against the solid oak door in despair. She had hoped that at least some of the girls might have escaped to make it home. Just as she was contemplating breaking in through a window, the front door was flung open and she was face to face with Dolly dark-eyes. Her severe bob was dishevelled and the two black eyes that Queenie had inflicted gave her an even more frightening stare. She said nothing at first and then took a step forward. Matty flinched and the girl laughed. ‘Some fucking lookout you was. Queenie’s been nicked, thanks to you. I’m the only one got back.’ She drew her fist back and launched a punch at Matty, who dodged aside. ‘What, don’t want to come in? Then piss off!’ Dolly shoved Matty so hard that she stumbled back down the stone steps, and by the time she righted herself the front door had been slammed tight shut.
Without Queenie there to protect her, the place had lost all feeling of sanctuary and she began walking along New Kent Road. She scanned for Frank’s men, just as Queenie had told her she should, but saw only some schoolchildren on their way home for tea, a pair of tramps, no doubt walking up to the Methodist Central Hall soup kitchen, and a raddled young woman dressed for a night’s work under the arches at Waterloo. It seemed safe, as safe as anywhere while Frank was in the country.
She headed for Tower Bridge Road, wondering how Queenie was. If she hadn’t come back for Matty she’d have been snug in the vicarage by now, removing labels. But she had an odd maternal protectiveness towards her girls and Matty supposed when she’d moved in with the Forty Elephants she’d become one of them. In spite of her situation, she had to smile. ‘How many mothers does one person need?’ she thought ruefully.