by Mary Gibson
Matty was horrified. Her face was raw with an emotion she’d assumed was well hidden in her everyday life. She hadn’t been acting. It was here for the world to see, her longing, her loss, as she raised the tiny child to touch its cheek to her own, and her own eyes stared out of the screen with such haunting sadness that she felt the tears brim, then roll in an uncontrolled stream down her cheeks. Nellie’s hand covered her own and she felt the woman’s concerned eyes on her.
‘It’s all over now, love,’ Nellie whispered. ‘You’re safe and sound.’ Nellie squeezed her hand and Matty squeezed back, thanking God that her tears had been misunderstood. She dabbed at her cheeks with the back of her gloved hand. Safe, yes, but not sound. She took in a shuddering breath and turned her gaze back to the screen.
26
Brown Bread and Bomboloni
August–September 1932
The first factory showing of Modern Woman and Work had taken place in Peek Frean’s canteen earlier that day. Tom and Matty were sitting at a corner table in the Concorde, toasting its success, when Sugar walked through the door with Queenie on his arm.
When Queenie spotted them she threw her arms wide. ‘Come ’ere, me lovely canary!’
Matty leaped to her feet, running to her as if the woman really were her long-lost mother. Queenie’s muscular arms encircled her and with the strength of a man she lifted Matty off her feet.
‘Queenie! How did you get out of prison?’
The woman planted a firm kiss on the top of her head and lowered her to the floor. With her arm through Matty’s, she swept her across the pub to where Tom and Sugar were already in conversation.
‘Detective Sergeant Praah of Tower Bridge nick, darlin’, that’s how,’ Queenie drawled in answer to Matty’s question. ‘Bent as a nine bob note, do anything for Sugar and me. Well, do anything for anyone so long as they bung him and remember to call him DS Praah – never Pratt!’ She hooted with laughter. ‘Sugar slipped him a pony and Pratt got me and all the girls off – insufficient evidence! Ha!’ Queenie’s foghorn laugh drew curious glances from the other drinkers. ‘Them coppers was cuddling me and the girls all the way to the nick. I don’t know how all that stuff up our knickers managed to disappear by the time we got there, but when it come to it, love, there wasn’t a frill, a flounce or a fuckin’ furbelow between us. No stuff, no charge. Get us a gin, Sugar darlin’, I’m dry as an Arab’s arse.’ She settled herself down next to Matty and took her hand.
‘So, darlin’, I hear my titfer come in very handy?’
‘It saved her life,’ Tom said and Queenie stared at him for a moment.
‘Oh no, that’s where you’re wrong. She saved her own life, didn’t you, sweetheart? Not many would have had the guts to do it, not when it come to it. But you did.’ She looked at Matty with undisguised admiration. ‘You ain’t got the muscle on you, but I’d have you in the Forty Elephants tomorrow if I thought you wasn’t made for better things.’
‘I’ll get the hat back to you,’ Matty said. ‘I’ve cleaned it up as much as I could, but the feather...’ Matty gulped. ‘The feather’s lost.’
‘I daresay it is. Some bastard swallowed it, I hear. No, you keep the hat, I’ll get you another “feather” for it.’ Queenie winked. ‘And keep the rings, seems you remembered what to do with them an’ all.’ She gave a satisfied nod.
‘I hope I don’t have to use them again – ever. But I’m grateful, without them I’d be dead or on my way back to America with Frank by now.’
At that moment Sugar came back with drinks. Beer and gin slopped on to the table as he sat down, jamming his thick legs under it.
‘So, have you heard anything?’ Tom asked.
Sugar had been charged with keeping his ear to the gangs’ bush telegraph. ‘Nix. It’s like the geezer was never here. Suits the Clerkenwell mob, though. Less trouble for them if he’s just “disappeared”. He come into the country on the quiet as it is. They might just let it go...’ Sugar looked uncertainly towards Matty.
‘But, as far as the police are concerned, there’s been no crime committed,’ Tom mused.
Matty gave him a long stare. ‘But, Tom, his family will have to know eventually. A person can’t just disappear.’
Queenie snorted. ‘Listen to the innocent! Half of Thames mud’s made up of people who “just disappeared”!’
Matty put her head in her hands. The sick feeling she’d had since killing Frank was like a worm slowly boring into her gut. She’d barely eaten or slept. The man was still ruining her life even from the grave. She rubbed her face.
‘I don’t think I can live like this, waiting for the Sabinis or the police to turn up on my doorstep. Wouldn’t it be best to go to Tower Bridge nick and just tell them it was self-defence?’
‘Silly as a sackload o’ monkeys!’ Sugar blurted out. ‘You’ll be walking up the stairs to Jack Ketch before you know it!’
‘What’s the matter with you, frightening her like that, Sugar?’ Queenie thumped him on the arm. ‘She’s gone white as a sheet!’
The mention of the hangman had hit Matty like a blow to the chest. She sat in miserable silence until Queenie nudged Sugar. ‘Come on, Shug. I got an early start tomorrow. Goin’ for an early morning dip!’ She stood up, giving Matty a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.
‘You’re always welcome at the vicarage, love, and if you need me to have a word with our bent copper any time, you just come and see me. Night darlin’.’ She kissed Matty and grabbed Sugar’s elbow, steering him out of the pub.
‘Matty, let’s just wait a bit before you rush to the police. Sugar’s right, you know. They could charge you with murder. Do you want to hang?’ Tom’s voice was urgent and taut with fear.
She didn’t want to hang. In fact it was a recurring dream of hers, that she was standing beneath the scaffold in a line of condemned prisoners, watching as each one walked up the steps to be hanged. And the paralysing terror she felt at just waiting for her turn to come was usually strong enough to wake her up. Now she felt that terror every waking minute. ‘Tom, you don’t understand. It’s the waiting that’s the worst...’
***
She tweaked the lace curtain and scanned the street of terraced houses. Matty was looking out for Tom. The house stood in almost accusing silence behind her. She was in the sedate parlour, still full of Eliza’s pictures and books and photographs. Matty had placed the two childhood pictures of her and Eliza at the same age on either end of the mantlepiece. They stood like two silent sentinels, reminding Matty of the bitter power of hope hijacked by regret. And now it seemed she had made the same mess of her life Eliza had. All the dreams for escape, for a better life, shattered for love of the wrong man.
Tom had insisted he go with her to Tower Bridge police station. He’d promised to be here early and now her heart leaped at the sight of him, walking towards the house, dressed in his best suit and trilby. His eyes were fixed on the pavement, and he looked lost in thought. Whatever encouraging words he was preparing for her were belied by the anxiety plainly written on his face. As she found herself wishing she’d been able to share more of her secrets with him, he looked towards the window, spotted her and broke into a reassuring smile. She wasn’t fooled, but at least the waiting was almost over.
She let him in and he slipped his arm round her waist, drawing her in close and kissing her. ‘Ready, my darling?’
‘Ready.’ She paused. ‘Tom, I’m so glad you’ll be with me.’ She gripped his hand. ‘Shall we go?’
He nodded silently. It seemed he’d used up all his arguments. ‘Come on then, sweetheart.’
They walked together to the bus stop in Southwark Park Road. But after only five minutes, Tom, seeing Matty’s increasing agitation, suggested they try for a taxi. Before she could answer Matty heard the roar of a speeding car. The flashy blue coupé with its cream soft top came to a screeching halt at the bus stop.
‘Hop in!’ Sugar ordered, leaning over to push open the passenger door.
Matty gave Tom a hesitant look and whispered, ‘Is this a good idea?’ She didn’t think it would help her case to turn up at Tower Bridge police station in the unmistakable motor of a known criminal.
‘Get in the jam jar!’ Sugar ordered.
Tom turned to Matty. ‘It’s OK, Matty. He can drop us off before we get to the nick.’
She agreed and squeezed herself into the tight back seat, while Tom sat next to Sugar. She was grateful the soft top wasn’t down today, as there was a chilly breeze blowing and a fine drizzle in the air. Sugar roared up Southwark Park Road but soon executed an inexplicable and dangerous U-turn.
‘You’re going the wrong way!’ Tom said.
But Sugar ignored him, halting at the stretch of Southwark Park Road known as the high pavement. Here the buildings were elevated and reached by two stepped pavements.
‘What’s the point of picking us up just to drop us here? We could have walked if we wanted a pint and a fish and chip dinner!’ Matty said, for the high pavement boasted a pub and a fish and chip shop.
Sugar turned round, his battered face unusually serious. ‘There’ll be no nick for you today.’
‘For God’s sake, tell him, will you, Tom. I’ve made up my mind.’
‘Sugar—’ Tom started, but his friend held up a brown bony hand, knuckles freshly grazed.
‘Listen! She’s no need going to the old Bill...’ Sugar said, ‘because the geezer ain’t brown bread!’
Matty felt as if someone had poured ice down her back. ‘How do you know? Are you sure?’
She couldn’t believe Frank had survived her attack. ‘I saw him die. That steel was buried in his neck – if you’d seen the blood...’ She shuddered at the memory.
‘I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure. I see him meself. Right mess you made of his boat race!’ Sugar grinned at her and Tom grabbed her hand.
‘Don’t worry, Matty, don’t worry,’ he said, breathless and white-faced, shocked out of his normal calm response to any crisis.
Sugar got out of the car. ‘You two comin’? Queenie says I need an ’aircut,’ he said, brushing his hand over an already severe short back and sides. He began walking towards a shop on the high pavement with a red and white striped pole outside.
They followed Sugar to Minetti’s barber shop and, as Matty entered the white-tiled, mirrored interior, she noted that every one of the black leather chairs, with their silver pedestals, was empty.
Minetti raised his head. He’d been studying the Sporting Life and now folded it slowly. ‘Hello, boys, ah, and lady.’ He got up and brushed off a black leather seat, which needed no brushing off. ‘Bella, have a seat.’ He smiled at Matty.
‘Tony, this is the friend I told you about – the one that’s been having a bit of trouble with her Italian,’ Tom said cryptically.
Minetti shook her hand. ‘Need a translator, eh? I can help with any Italian problem you got – it’s my native tongue after all.’ He gave a shrug and spread his hands.
Matty felt she’d landed in some boys’ convoluted game, the sort her brother Charlie and Nellie’s brothers had liked to exclude her from when they were kids, with secret rules and hidden passwords and obscure outcomes. Except this wasn’t a game.
‘But didn’t you tell me the lady’s Italian friend had gone home?’ Minetti said, his brown eyes suddenly sharp as the cut-throat razor hanging by his chair.
Tom nodded thoughtfully. ‘We made a mistake. He’s extended his visit.’
Minetti walked to the front window and turned the shop sign to Closed.
‘It’s a slow day. I got nothing better to do than talk about the old country. Come in the back. Mrs Minetti’s just making coffee.’
When they entered the little back parlour Minetti’s wife gave him a puzzled look, but welcomed them as if they were family.
‘Come in, sit down. You’re just in time – I’ve made Bomboloni!’ she said and disappeared into the kitchen.
Minetti smiled at his wife’s back as the kitchen door closed behind her, then he leaned forward, speaking soflty. ‘She don’t like the idea of me coming out of retirement. I can tell you, she was relieved when I told her the problem had gone away...’
Tom nodded sympathetically and Matty felt like the elephant in the room. ‘Can I say something?’ She put up her hand. ‘I don’t want you getting into trouble with your wife, Mr Minetti.’
‘Trouble? No trouble!’ The barber waved his hands. ‘She’s like a lamb... my Anna. A lamb. I tell her, we been here so long in Bermondsey, it’s like family now. What else should I do when one of my boys asks for help?’
Soon the aroma of roast coffee and sounds from a bubbling coffee pot reached them.
‘No, I think we should involve as few people as possible,’ Matty insisted.
Tom ignored her. ‘So, you’re still in, Tony? We go back to the plan?’
‘Hold on. I’m sitting right here, Tom. What’s going on and why don’t I know anything about this plan?’ Matty glared at him.
The tinkling of coffee cups announced Mrs Minetti’s return. Sure enough, as if she really had been expecting them, she carried a plateful of golden, doughnut-like cakes oozing yellow custard from their tops and dusted with icing sugar. Matty thought Mrs Minetti’s welcome remarkably warm for someone who had cause to wish them a hundred miles from her husband’s shop.
They all waited in silence as the barber’s wife poured coffee. Sugar shovelled four teaspoons of his namesake into the fine china coffee cup, which he gripped with thick fingers. His eyes lit up as Mrs Minetti handed round the Bomboloni and he stuffed an entire fluffy ball into his mouth, avoiding the fuss of a plate.
‘Mmm, good as Edwards’!’ he said appreciatively and Mrs Minetti smiled at the compliment, for Edwards’ bakery in Tower Bridge Road produced the best doughnuts in London, more sugar-dusted clouds than confection, and Sugar regularly walked around with a white paper bag full of them.
‘Let’s ask Mama what she thinks,’ Mr Minetti said, after she’d sat down at the head of the table. He spoke to her in very fast Italian. Her neat head, a silken black cap of dark hair drawn back into a tight bun, nodded as she considered each point her husband made.
Matty could only recognize a few words, one of which was mafia, which made her shift uncomfortably in her seat. Eventually the barber’s wife said, ‘Si, si,’ gave another decisive nod and then turned to Matty.
‘I’m so sorry, Matty, for what happened to you. My Tony, he ain’t been in no trouble since we left Italy, I made sure of that.’
Mr Minetti rubbed his chin and nodded. ‘S’true. I’m just a barber these days.’
‘But,’ Mrs Minetti went on, ‘what I think is this, you got to fight fire with fire and like he says, Bermondsey is family now, and we help our own... fire with fire.’
She placed her hand over her husband’s and Sugar reached out for another Bombolone. Cramming it expertly into his mouth, he plucked a blue silk handkerchief from his top pocket to wipe away a drip of pale lemon custard from his chin. ‘So, we’re wheeling out the Bermondsey mafia then?’ he said through a mouthful of Bombolone.
Matty laughed. ‘What are you talking about? There is no Bermondsey mafia!’
Matty knew that as well as anyone else sitting round this table, with its pretty cloth and delicate china. Those Bermondsey boys wanting to be career criminals generally gravitated to the Elephant mob. What Bermondsey had in abundance was wide boys, small-time villains in every street, tipsters, touts and dippers working the race courses, bookies’ runners and fences aplenty who would move on anything from cigarettes to coconuts thieved from the docks and warehouses. Well known for their cunning in outwitting or co-opting the law, they were more mischievous than vicious.
Whatever organization Mr Minetti had once had dealings with in his youth back in Italy, Matty believed his wife when she said there’d been no contact with them in forty odd years.
Mr Minetti spoke. ‘I don’t like the sound of your friend, this Rossi. H
e got what he deserved. People don’t usually get what they deserve, Matty, but they always get what they expect! And if this Rossi expects a Bermondsey mafia, that’s what we’ll give him.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want any more violence, Mr Minetti.’
Sugar snorted and Tom said quickly, ‘Don’t worry, Matty, there won’t need to be any.’
‘But you want to be rid of him, don’t you?’ Minetti asked, dropping his voice so that Matty could almost imagine the neat little parlour was in a whitewashed house, perched on a sun-striped hillside in Italy rather than on the high pavement in Bermondsey. She wasn’t sure what he meant.
‘I want him out of my life, but not—’
‘Brown bread,’ Sugar said, lifting another Bombolone from the plate.
*
Matty swished the curtains closed against a leaden early evening sky. The fine rain which had fallen all day was still soaking the slate roofs to black and the sandy brick to green. She ached as if the damp had seeped into her bones and her heart felt as heavy as the sky. She was tired. She and Tom had walked back to Reverdy Road largely in silence and were now seated in the parlour, where Tom was coaxing a fire into life against the damp.
‘Pour us a gin, love,’ she said as she came to sit down in the armchair nearest the fire.
He got up, brushing coal dust from his hands. ‘It’s not exactly the end to the day you expected?’
She switched on the shaded standard lamp next to her chair and rested her head on the old-fashioned antimacassar. There was so much of Eliza still here that she couldn’t bring herself to let go, as if answers to all the unasked questions of a lifetime resided in these domestic objects that had been handled, chosen and touched by her real mother.