Goodnight Lady

by Martina Cole

  Bernadette turned to face her sister and her mouth opened twice before she could form any words.

  ‘What? What did you say?’

  Kerry snorted through her nose.

  ‘You heard. What? You deaf now as well as stupid? I said, you can get the hell out of here. I know your game, mate. Well, you tell who the fuck you like. It won’t make no difference to me. I ain’t ashamed of anything where that man’s concerned, I love the bones of him. So now you know.’

  Bernie’s mind was working overtime. If Kerry slung her out now she would be back home permanently; she would also be without a job. As Kerry’s dresser she got a good wage and did nothing really to earn it except iron her dresses or alter them if necessary. She was well set up nowadays and it was all thanks to Kerry and Briony. She also knew that no matter what Briony’s opinion of Evander Dorsey might be, she would not like the fact Bernie had tried to deck one over on Kerry. She wouldn’t like that at all.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Kerry. I guessed ages ago about you and Evander, saw you looking at each other. I knew what the outcome was going to be. If I was going to say anything I would have said it by now. I’m pleased for you. I’m glad you’ve found someone!’

  ‘Oh, pull the other one, it’s got golden bells on! I know your game, Bernie, you’ve always been the same...’

  Evander walked into the kitchen. He had pulled on his trousers and vest. Bernadette looked at his muscled torso and his handsome face and found it in her heart to see just what had attracted Kerry.

  ‘Stop all this shouting, ladies. It’s wrong for you two to fall out over me. Now let’s have a cup of coffee and try and talk this out.’

  Bernie saw that his eyes were wary and her heart lifted. He was scared of her, of what she could say, of who she could tell. Unlike Kerry, he was more than aware of what the outcome could be if she walked from this house. After all, no one would physically hurt Kerry but he would be lynched.

  ‘She’s a vicious cow, Evander, you don’t know her.’

  Bernie was shocked at the vehemence in her sister’s voice.

  ‘Oh, come on, Kerry, what have I done to deserve that? I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, I swear. I’ll keep this as close a secret as you. After all, if it got out...’

  She left the rest of the sentence in mid air and Evander bit his lip. The kettle boiled and Bernie busied herself making the drinks. Kerry stood with her back against the table and her arms tight across her chest. Unlike Evander she knew what Bernie was capable of, though unlike Evander she wasn’t as aware of what would really happen should the affair become public.

  Bernie gave everyone their drinks. Putting her arm on Kerry’s, she said sweetly: ‘I don’t want to fall out over this, Kerry. You’re my sister and I’ll keep this a secret for as long as you want. I mean it. If you’re happy then I’m happy. If you really want me to leave I will. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. But even if you ding me out, I won’t say a dicky bird to anyone.’

  Kerry looked into the face so like her own and felt the sting of tears in her eyes.

  She knew that Bernie was staying whether she wanted it or not, Evander’s reaction had seen to that. But it saddened her that she could never trust her sister, or indeed understand the hatred in her. It had always been the same. Since they were babies Bernie had always had a vicious streak where she was concerned. It was jealousy, and jealousy made people do evil things. For the first time Kerry was really frightened, not for herself but for Evander.

  Molly was putting the finishing touches to the lunch she had prepared for Joshua O’Malley and his mother. She swept her eyes around her house to make sure everything was gleaming. Satisfied, she went to the fireplace and, taking up a large brick, banged it on the back of the grate three times. The banging was answered by two knocks from the other side of the wall and two minutes later Mother Jones came in at Molly’s front door.

  ‘Oh, Molly, it looks a picture. Beautiful. Even that old bitch won’t be able to find fault.’

  Molly smiled in satisfaction. Elizabeth O’Malley was the only fly in the ointment as far as Eileen’s wedding was concerned. Hated by everyone in Dagenham and Barking for her vindictive tongue and her holy Joeing ways, she was now to become a member of the Cavanagh family, and as much as the thought distressed Molly she would take a lot to see her eldest daughter happily married, even take on Elizabeth O’Malley if necessary.

  ‘The food smells beautiful, now stop your worrying. Did I tell you what I heard the other week?’

  Molly busied herself tidying Rosalee’s hair and said, ‘No, what?’

  ‘It seems Mrs O’Malley was cleaning out St Vincent’s Presbytery when who should come in but Jean Barlow. The woman’s got a tongue like an adder! Well, poor Father McNamara was nearly shitting himself at the two of them in the same place. I mean, their hatred of one another goes back years! Barlow was knocking off O’Malley’s man just before he died. Well, this is the rub. Barlow asks the priest if he could set the banns up for her next weddin’, looking at O’Malley all the time like, trying to annoy the life out of her. So O’Malley says all innocent like, “Aren’t you a bit long in the tooth for getting married, Mrs Barlow?” And that mare turns on her and says: “There’s no set age for getting married, or indeed falling in love. Why, Mr O‘Malley could have told you that, dear.”’

  Molly gaped. ‘She didn’t mention O’Malley’s man?’

  Mother Jones roared with laughter.

  ‘She did! Well, the priest, God love him and keep him, had to separate them. Mrs McAnulty his housekeeper threw a bucket of water over them in the end. Like alley cats, she said they were, and the language! The priest was red-faced for days after!’

  ‘Well, good for Barlow, I say. It’s about time someone gave that bitch one in the eye. No one split on her old man because they were glad to see someone getting one over on the old cow.’

  As she said that Eileen walked through the front door with the woman in question and her son, and Molly, being Molly and a mother who wanted her girl wed, held out her arms and said: ‘Come away inside, Mrs O’Malley. This is indeed a pleasure!’

  Tommy Lane and his close friend and minder Jimmy Reynard walked into the lunch-time crush of The Two Puddings in Stratford. They pushed their way through to the bar and Tommy ordered two pints of best bitter. He noticed he was being observed by a huge bald-headed man called Boris Jackobitz. Tommy looked the man in the face and, raising his pint, motioned with his head to the back bar. Boris nodded almost imperceptibly and five minutes later slipped through the curtained doorway at the back of the pub. Tommy and Jimmy followed.

  Their disappearance went unnoticed by the clientele who were waiting for the result of a horse race. This was the place for betting. It was crowded out day and night with punters. From well-to-do middle-class shopkeepers to run of the mill petty criminals and local hard men, all had one thing in common: a love of the horses. It was the main topic of conversation and the only interest of most of the clientele.

  Boris employed runners from the age of seven to fifty, and was the foremost bookie in London. He chased his bets like the fillies chased the Cheltenham Gold Cup: conscientiously and without ever letting up. If you couldn’t pay Boris it was time to leave the country.

  He closed the heavy wooden door behind the thick curtain and motioned for Tommy to sit. He didn’t extend this courtesy to Jimmy because a minder should always stand and remain alert. Jimmy leant against the wall and crossed his arms, watching Boris all the time.

  ‘So what can I do for you, Tommy Lane? Long time no see.’ Boris’s deep and throaty voice was accompanied by a chuckle. Tommy smiled and crossed his legs. Pulling out one of his cheap cheroots, he lit it before saying: ‘You’re looking well, Boris me old mate. Prosperous and happy. That’s what I like to see.’

  Boris shrugged his shoulders and clenched his fists, emphasising his muscular torso.

  ‘I have to keep well, Tommy, there’s so many people wanting to come up in th
e world over my back. And yours, I don’t doubt. I keep my place with fear and a little bit of respect. Now, we’ve had the polite chit-chat, what’s the rub? I’m a busy man.’

  ‘You know just about everything that’s going on. People owe you money, and when they can’t pay they trade information. What’s been going on in the streets that would interest me particularly?’

  Boris digested Tommy’s words and, opening a drawer in the table, took out a bottle of red-eye whisky. Pulling the cork out with his teeth, he took a long drink before offering it to Tommy. He took the bottle and swigged from it, wiping his hand across his mouth afterwards.

  ‘Is what you have to tell me so bad I’ll need a stiff drink first?’

  His voice was jocular and Boris, noted for his dry sense of humour, laughed out loud.

  ‘Maybe, Tommy Lane. Maybe. It’s Bolger you’re interested in, isn’t it? Well, I heard a whisper- only a whisper, mind - that he has been seen with Isaac Dubronsky. He’s well in with the Jews. Now they’ve always stuck to trading and loan sharking, but I understand Willy wants them to branch out into the cat business. Never had no time for whores myself, prefer my females to have four legs and a good pedigree. But it’s funny, you know, Tommy, you coming here, because I was going to see that woman of yours, Briony. It seems she’s the one he’s gunning for. He’s been asking all over town about her. It sounds more a vengeance thing to me. You know, I wondered if she’d had a word with him at sometime, a run-in like? Because he was asking about her in Stratford not a week since. And around Barking. About her family. You might not believe me but I was going to see the lady in question myself, especially after that young girl was cut.’

  Tommy stared at Boris with awe. There was nothing that escaped his notice. He rarely used his information, it was more of a hobby to him.

  ‘You know about Ginelle?’

  Boris grinned. ‘Listen, Tommy, I know everything about everyone, yourself included. But I don’t use anything unless it benefits me. If you have a handle on someone it brings in unpaid debts a lot faster than a hiding. Also, if I hear of a robbery and one of the people involved owes me money, I can collect it quickly and cleanly. But this Bolger I don’t like. He cut a friend of mine a few years back, a young tom who liked a bet. He cut her face. I went to see him myself. That’s where Willy got the scar across his back. I done him with a razor and Willy, being Willy, let me. That was why I wanted to see young Briony. I like her. I liked her when she was a child and her father used to send her with a bet. Tell her from me, whatever happens, I will be on her side.’

  ‘Thanks, Boris, I appreciate that.’

  He smiled, showing black teeth, and shook his head. ‘I always was a gentleman. Whatever my reputation, I would never hurt a woman. Bolger has made a career of it. The sooner he’s cleaned off the pavements, the better.’

  Tommy stood up and held out his hand. Boris grasped it and squeezed it tightly.

  ‘Go and see Dubronsky. If I know him he’s in over his head. He’s strictly small-time.’

  ‘I will.’ Turning back at the door, Tommy said, ‘I’ll tell Briony what you said, Boris. She’ll really appreciate it.’

  He grinned.

  ‘She’s a good businesswoman, clear-headed and sensible. Most women are when you get to know them properly. I think they could even run the country one day!’

  Tommy laughed at the incongruity of the statement and left. He made his way with Jimmy to Petticoat Lane, stopping to pick up two hand guns on the way. When you visited the Jews on their own territory it was just as well to go there with a little bit of insurance.

  Kerry sat on her bed staring at the pile of clothes on the floor, trying to summon up the energy to get herself dressed. Evander had left and she could hear Bernie humming to herself as she prepared some food. She gritted her teeth together, making a grinding noise. Why did she have to be plagued like this. She wanted Evander Dorsey so bad she could taste it.

  It was all she thought about, all she wanted to think about. If he had been a big blond Swede, no one would have said a word. But he was black, and because of that fact, he and Kerry had to skulk around like criminals. Now Bernie knew about them and that was the beginning of the end. Instinctively Kerry knew this.

  In France she could live openly with Evander. They were artists, and as such would be forgiven much. Here, and in America, if she publicly proclaimed her feelings they would be ridiculed. Hated. It was so unfair. Her mother would go mad if she heard about Evander. You could be a twopenny whore and get more respect than a woman who went with a black man.

  It was so unfair. So very, very unfair.

  Bernie bustled into the room with a hot drink. She looked at Kerry and smiled sadly.

  ‘Come on, Kel, get yourself sorted.’ She began to pick up the clothes on the floor and Kerry leant forward and grabbed her wrist. Bernie looked up into her face, stunned.

  ‘If you try and bugger this up for me, Bernie, I’ll kill you! Do you understand me? I’ll kill you with my bare hands.’

  Bernie nodded, her eyes filling with tears. What really hurt her was the fact that Kerry knew her so well, knew exactly what she was capable of. She could see through her like a pane of glass.

  ‘I won’t, Kerry. I promise.’

  Kerry pushed the offending arm away from her and said, ‘Too right you won’t, because I won’t let you!’

  The two sisters stared into each other’s eyes, and it was Bernadette who looked away first.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brick Lane market was packed. The stall holders were shouting out their wares in loud voices. Children ran among the stalls, looking for a chance to swipe the nearest thing to hand. Old women and young mothers stopped for a gossip or to scour the second-hand clothes stalls, of which there were plenty. Barrow boys stood by with apples and oranges piled high, their dirty hands grasping money and weighing up their produce quickly and efficiently, always underweighing when possible and keeping up a stream of talk as they did so, chatting up customers, young and old.

  The shops were open. Gold was displayed behind metal grilles, diamonds sparkled, and furniture was displayed outside on the pavements. It was the era of the never-never and the Jews cashed in on this. They had always been the Uncles, the moneylenders, they were established and commanded respect because of this. They were rich, owning property in Brick Lane and roundabouts, but lived in Golders Green, respectable lives, with respectable families. Many of the men started out making a small fortune from the cobbles, a term for boxing without gloves. They fought all comers at Victoria Park and when they had a stake eventually made their way into the garment or gold industry, always lending money as a sideline. The easy atmosphere belied the real dealings that went on here. The lane was open till late at night. The smell of gefilte fish and blintzes vied for a place among the smells of rotten vegetables and the ever present smell of steam from the hoffman pressers. Tommy walked along with Jimmy until he came to Dubronsky’s small pop shop. ‘Pop’ was the term for pawn. It was not unusual for a woman to take her husband’s good suit in on a Monday and get it back out Saturday, ready to be worn on Sunday. Pawning was a way of life for most people. It was the only way to stretch meagre pennies, and to keep children’s bellies full. Inside the shop, Tommy closed the door and put up the ‘Closed’ sign.

  The small Jewish man behind the counter smiled at him.

  ‘Tommy, my boy. What brings you here?’

  Dubronsky’s exterior did not kid Tommy one iota. He knew the little man could blow his head off at a whim; his meek and engaging exterior covered a calculating brain and a violent streak. Until now, Tommy had always got on very well with him. He used this fact as he ambled over to the counter.

  ‘I hear you’ve been making friends with the pimps? Is this true?’

  Dubronsky shrugged.

  ‘Since when have I had to ask you who I can be friends with? What are you, Tommy Lane, an Irish rabbi, that you come here on to my premises and question me about my likes and di
slikes?’

  Tommy grinned then.

  ‘Jimmy, have a look out the back, would you?’

  He walked through, slamming up the flap of the wooden counter noisily and walking through to the back of the shop. He emerged with a girl of about eighteen. She had thick black hair and a large nose. Dubronsky’s daughter Ruth, the likeness was unmistakable.

  ‘Leave my daughter be, Tommy, she’s only a child helping her father.’ Tommy detected the worry in his voice. Jimmy was well known for his vicious ways and his non-existent brain. Dubronsky knew that if Tommy nodded, Jimmy would just batter the girl without a second’s thought. But Tommy was piqued that the man thought so little of him.

  ‘I wouldn’t hurt your daughter, you should know that. I want to hurt Willy Bolger. I don’t want to fall out with you or anyone else for that matter, but I will if needs be. Bolger has upset me, and now he has to pay the price. If you protect him, I’ll raze this fucking place to the ground! I mean it. So you give him a little message from me. Tell him I’m looking for him, and I’ll find him eventually. So he can make it a lot easier on himself if he makes a point of coming to see me. If I have to look for him, it will be worse on him and any of his so-called friends. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Perfectly. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’

  Tommy stared at the man for a few seconds, battling the urge to attack him. It seemed that whoever was behind Bolger was a bigger fish than he’d first thought, otherwise why would Dubronsky be so cavalier? Walking around the counter, Tommy grabbed the little man by the scruff of his neck and frog-marched him out to the back of the shop. Kicking open the toilet in the yard, he pushed the man’s head down the pan, using all his considerable strength. The toilet, though well used, had not seen soap for many years. The smell of dank urine and mould hung in the air. Someone had used it a while before and the urine was deep orange, an oily film floating on it. He held Dubronsky’s head under until the man’s body began to sag, then he dragged his head up and threw him on to the ground outside the toilet door. He proceeded to kick him ferociously, concentrating on the chest and back.