by Martina Cole
Briony’s face took on a hardness noticed by Molly. Both women were thinking the same thing. Joshua and his mother didn’t want to be related to her, Briony, in her new role. It was bad enough when she owned the houses, though her offer of help in buying Joshua his own home had been gratefully accepted. But now they were actually frightened of becoming involved with the Cavanaghs whose name was synonymous with violence. Well, Joshua O’Malley would find out what violence meant before he was much older! Briony determined she would see to that personally.
Elizabeth O‘Malley shook her head at her son. ‘Sure, you’re better off home with me. That Eileen was a pasty-faced bitch if ever I saw one. Not a spark of life in her at all. Jasus, she’d breed you mewling brats.’
Joshua stared into the fire. It was Eileen’s passiveness that had attracted him, but his mother was right on one thing. The Cavanaghs were not a family to get tied to. Not now anyway.
‘That Briony ... a murdering hoor if ever one was born! Your father must be turning in his grave. All those girls with skirts up their nostrils and legs bare to the world!’ His mother blessed herself fervently.
According to her, Joshua thought, his father must be like the Spinning Jenny in that grave of his. Yet he himself had been a rake who had been finally driven from the house by the harridan standing before Joshua now. His mother’s first sight of Kerry and Bernadette with their lipstick and bare-legged mode of dressing had incensed her, especially the short Eton crop worn by Bernie.
‘To think you would have been a part of them! You’re well out of it, son. You’re a young man with your whole life in front of you. There’s plenty of girls who’d be grateful to you for taking them on.’
‘Mother, I’m thirty-eight years old. Hardly a boy. And in case it’s escaped your notice there hasn’t exactly been a stream of women beating a path to my door.’
‘Men are fools! They shouldn’t marry ’til they’re in their forties. Even then they have to be careful. A pretty face can hide a multitude of sins, you know. You have to look at the stock they come from. If that Briony Cavanagh comes around here shouting her mouth off, I’ll fill it for her meself. I’m not scared of her, or any of them for that matter. Let them come and see what I’m capable of! My son will marry who he bloody well wants and it won’t be a Cavanagh. Over my dead body! You hear me, over my dead body!’
Elizabeth O‘Malley was in full swing when Briony walked in at the back door of the tiny terraced house in Longbridge Road. She stood in the scullery for a few seconds before she made herself known. As she stepped into the kitchen Elizabeth O’Malley nearly jumped from her skin in fright. Holding her hand over her mouth, she whispered: ‘Jesus cross of Christ!’
Briony smiled widely.
‘I take it you wasn’t expecting me then? Well, you should have been. You should have been sitting here with locked doors pretending you was out like I was the tally man coming for me money. Only unlike the tally man, the chances are if I don’t hear what I want to hear, I’ll break your fucking necks! Starting with you first, Mrs O’Malley.’
Joshua stared at the little woman in awe.
‘Shut your mouth, Joshua. You look like you should be on a slab at Billingsgate market. What’s this I hear about you dumping me sister after promising to marry her?’
Joshua just stared at the apparition in front of him.
‘What my sister sees in you I don’t even pretend to know, Joshua. But she wants you so she’s going to have you, see. Because you strung her along, you asked her to marry you, and now I’ll see to it personally that you do. You are going to get washed and spruced up, you’re going round my mother’s at seven-thirty tonight, and you’re going to tell Eileen all that old fanny you gave her was just wedding nerves. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
Joshua nodded.
‘And you’re going to do what I say?’
He nodded again.
‘Good boy. Now another thing while we’re on the subject. I don’t want you, Mrs O’Malley, within a ten-mile radius of my sister. If I find out you’ve even touched her without Eileen’s express permission, I’ll rip your ugly head off your shoulders and give it to me henchmen to play footie with.’ She smiled at them. ‘Well, I’m glad we had this little chat. It’s good for families to talk and get things sorted, don’t you think? Now if you’ll excuse me, I am a very busy lady and you’ve caused me enough trouble for one day.’
Tommy sat in the Dickens Club in Soho nursing a large scotch. He had earlier met a man called Siddy Trundley, a small Jew who took the bets for the traders in Soho Market and aroundabouts. He was hoping Tommy would come into his business with him so he could have the protection of Tommy’s men and also some extra capital. Tommy had been agreeable, seeing the chance to expand the business and double the turnover. He would give one of his more intelligent minders the job of managing it for him. That way everyone was happy. Now he sat thinking about Briony and the night before. She had gone off with Jonathan and Rupert again and got roaring drunk, coming home in the small hours causing havoc. It was becoming a regular occurrence. He was wondering whether to chance giving her a right hander, as he put it to himself, when her voice startled him out of his reverie.
‘You gonna drink that drink, Tommy, or get engaged to it?’ She sat beside him, smelling of musk and orange flower water. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Really, Briony, what for? To call me a prickless wonder again? Or to try and scratch me eyes out? Only your histrionics are beginning to get on my tits, know what I mean?’
Briony licked her lips and opened her eyes wide. ‘I’m sorry. Honestly, Tom, I’m deeply ashamed of what I did last night.’
He looked into her innocent face and barely controlled his desire to slap her.
‘You’re mugging me off, Bri, and I won’t have it. It’s not funny. Sitting there all wide-eyed and trying to make me laugh won’t work this time. You have been pratting about for a month. You ain’t done a full day’s collar in the houses or the clubs since we took out Olds. Either you sort yourself out or me and you are finished, over with. I mean that.’
Briony sat up straighter in her chair.
‘You’re right. I have been pratting about but it’s over with now. I took a while to adjust to our new position but I think I’ve sorted meself out now. Come to terms with it like. I don’t want you to leave me, I don’t want to break up the partnership. I love you, Tommy, more than you will ever believe.’
For Briony to say she loved him in broad daylight in a crowded place spoke volumes to Tommy. Kissing her hand softly, he smiled at her.
‘What’s really wrong, Bri?’
‘I don’t know, Tommy. I found it all a bit scary, I think. Taking out Olds and Bolger, all that with Dumas. Everything just got on top of me and I couldn’t cope with it.’
‘And you can cope with it now?’
She smiled brightly. ‘Yes, I think I can. I’ve come to terms with meself, with what we did.’
Tommy squeezed the tiny hand in his and smiled gently. ‘I’ll look after you, darling, you should know that.’
She smiled and nodded. Tommy knew that Briony wasn’t as hard and calculating as she liked to make out. That she was just a young woman, for all her talk and her business acumen. She had taken the death of Ginelle hard, and the consequent deaths of Olds and Bolger and the others had given her many a sleepless night. He would stick by her, support her, and take the pressure off her for a while. She was his woman, his love, and whatever the right and wrongs of their life, he loved her desperately.
Briony pulled her hand from his. ‘Have a guess what I just done?’
‘What?’
She told him of her visit to Joshua and his mother, making it sound amusing, playing on the comic aspect instead of the real, frightening part of it. As they laughed together Tommy was aware that Briony’s laughter was a bit too high, her gaiety too brittle to be true. He would keep his eye on her. In fact, he’d watch her like a hawk.
Cha
pter Eighteen
Henry Dumas sat up in the bed and made a pretence of reading the paper. Isabel watched him as she fussed around the room. His whole countenance was different, even his mouth had lost its arrogant sneer.
‘Anything interesting in the paper, Henry?’
He shook his head. ‘Not really.’
Isabel tidied the counterpane. ‘What about this new thing, sending people to Australia? I think it’s a wonderful idea.’
‘If it gets rid of the working class, then it can only be good.’
Isabel sighed. A livid scar travelled up from the top of Henry’s cheekbone and disappeared into his hairline. It was a startling white and when he was angry, as he was now, it seemed to raise itself from the skin around it. He also had scars on his shoulders and back. Whoever had attacked him had really meant to do him harm. She’d wondered at first why his attackers had not taken his wallet and watch. But the police said that maybe the men had been disturbed, it often happened in daylight robberies. Now her sympathy, and she had been surprised to feel any at all, was slowly disappearing. As he was getting better, he was getting back to his old self. Never an appealing prospect at the best of times.
‘You’re a very difficult man, you know. Since you were attacked you’ve changed. You haven’t left this bed. God knows, you were bad enough before but now you’re impossible. Even the doctor is getting worried. Your wounds are healed, you’re fit and well enough to get up. So why don’t you come down today, have your meal in the library? The garden looks lovely.’
‘Isabel, do me a favour and leave me alone. I still feel unwell and if I choose to stay in bed that is my prerogative. I do not want to sit in the library or look out on the garden. I have no interest in the doings of little people who want to go to that Godawful continent Australia. I don’t care what we’re having for dinner or lunch. I don’t care what you’re doing or what your blasted father’s doing. In short, you bore me. Please go away and leave me alone.’
Isabel pursed her lips and stood up. As she walked from the room, Henry called her back.
‘And keep that child and his confounded dog away from me!’
As she opened the door, Nipper, a large German Shepherd, leapt into the room, closely followed by Benedict. Nipper bounded on to the bed and began a ferocious licking of Henry’s face and balding head. Muddy paws ripped into his copy of The Times. He pushed the animal away with all his strength, knocking it on to the floor.
Nipper was an amiable animal. He was still young, and even though Henry Dumas had never given the dog a kind word the animal lived in hope. Jumping on to the bed once more, he resumed his frantic ministrations.
Benedict stood at the door, his face alive with fun, and called the animal loudly.
‘Nipper, Nipper! Come here now. Leave Papa alone. He’s not well!’
Isabel bit back a laugh as Henry’s face appeared above the mass of fur and said through clenched teeth: ‘Get this dog off me!’
Benedict pulled the dog from the bed bodily, heaving him on to the floor where Nipper sat with his huge tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, panting from exertion.
‘I’m sorry, Papa, but he likes you. I try and keep him out of your way...’ His voice trailed off and Benedict hunched his shoulders in exasperation.
Henry looked at the boy closely. Other than those startling green Cavanagh eyes, it could have been his own mother standing there. Benedict had unconsciously used a movement of his mother’s. She would tilt her head to the side and smile at him, hunching her shoulders, exactly as Benedict had, when she couldn’t answer his constant questions. For the first time ever, he felt a flicker of interest in the boy.
‘Do that again, boy.’
Benedict shrugged.
‘Do what, Papa?’
Henry parodied his action and Benedict laughed. He held out his hands, hunched up his shoulders and did as his father asked him. For the first time ever, Henry smiled at the boy, a genuine smile.
‘Isabel, get my albums from the bottom drawer in my dressing room.’
Amazed, she did as she was told. Benedict stood by the bed and stroked Nipper’s ears absently as he waited for his father to speak again. He was unsure what he should do. His father actually having a conversation with him was so rare. It normally only came about when his school work was not up to par. Then he was upbraided soundly.
Henry laughed again, a wide open laugh that showed his teeth. ‘Here it is, look! Look at that, boy.’
Benedict took the photograph from his father’s hand and looked down at a woman dressed in black bombazine. She had white hair and a sad smile on her face.
‘That’s my mother, your grandmother.’
Benedict looked into his father’s face and said: ‘She’s very pretty.’
Henry nodded sagely. ‘She was very pretty. Too pretty, some thought. But I always loved her dearly, she was a good woman.’
Isabel stood in absolute shock and amazement as father and son chatted for the first time ever.
‘What happened to her, Papa?’
‘Oh, she died when I was a lad. Not that much older than you. She had many children but they all died. My mother died because of that. Because she was too gentle, too fine-boned to have children. She was like a child herself. Her laughter was so beautiful ... she was a generous woman, and doted on me of course. We would play hide and go seek and blind man’s buff with my old nurse Hattie.’
He stared into the distance as if seeing them all again. Benedict looked at the old sepia photograph with interest. ‘Have you any more photographs, Papa? I’d love to hear about my grandmother. I’ve seen the painting of her in the drawing room so many times and I’ve often wondered about her.’
Henry looked at him again, a piercing look. It was natural the boy would want to know of his background. He smiled then, a cruel smile. His mother would be a revelation to him if he knew.
‘Come and sit on the bed with me and I’ll show you all the photos I have. I’ve only one of my father, but his portrait is up in the attics. He was painted in his full dress uniform. He was a lancer.’
‘Did you like him, Papa?’
Henry laughed at the childish enquiry and shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t, actually. He was a nasty-tempered man.’
Benedict bit his lips and stared trustingly into his father’s face. The sentence hung on the air.
‘You’re thinking I take after him, aren’t you?’
Benedict shook his head furiously, unwilling to break the friendliness of the moment; it was so rare to speak to his father like this he couldn’t bear for it to end.
Henry sighed heavily. ‘Maybe I do, boy. You inherit things from your parents, you know. I inherited my father’s bad humour. I wonder what you’ll inherit from me and your mother?’
As he spoke he looked at Isabel and she felt herself sinking inside at the expression on his face.
Briony awoke the morning before Eileen’s wedding in high good humour. In the weeks since her showdown with Tommy and Mrs Horlock, she had gradually become more like her old self. Only now she had a touch of hardness to her that was not apparent before.
She opened the bedroom curtains herself and frowned slightly at the two men lounging against their Cowley motor car, smoking and chatting. She still hated to be watched like this. To have minders everywhere. They never did a real day’s work and they ate their heads off. Tommy laughed at her complaints, telling her that if they ever had any serious trouble, the men would more than earn their dinners. But it galled her just the same to have those two standing around constantly, have them follow her everywhere she went, and even vet visitors to her home. It was necessary, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.
‘Come back to bed, Bri, it’s too early to get up.’
Briony smiled. ‘Listen, Tommy, I have a full day ahead of me. The final preparations for Eileeir’s wedding, plus a meeting with Mariah, and on top of all that I have a special date this morning.’
He pulled back the cov
ers and Briony saw he was aroused. ‘You can have a special date now if you like!’
‘Oh, Tommy, you’re terrible! I have to get bathed and dressed and off to Regents Park for ten-thirty.’
Tommy pulled the covers back over himself and said, ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
Briony was nonplussed for a moment. ‘Would you like to? Only you haven’t really seen him, have you? He’s beautiful, Tommy ...’
‘I know that, Bri, you tell me often enough.’
‘Sally’s taking him to the park, and while he runs his dog we chat. If Isabel knew there’d would be murders, but what she don’t know can’t hurt her. Sometimes I feel like just taking him, you know? He’s ten now, he’s growing up, and he doesn’t even know I exist. It hurts, Tommy.’
He took her small hand in his and kissed it.
‘We go through this every time. He don’t know you, Bri, he’s happy with them. Well, with Isabel anyway. He’ll have everything we never had, he’ll have the right friends, go to the right schools. Fuck me, Bri, he’s got it made! I wish my old mum had given me to someone like that.’
‘But I could give him all that now.’
Her voice was small, distressed.
‘Oh, Bri, don’t go queer on me again. You can offer him money, but you’ll always be Briony Cavanagh. You’re not even married. He’d just be an illegitimate kid. This way he’s someone, someone important. He’ll go to one of them university places, then he’ll inherit all that old goat’s money. Don’t balls it up for him, Bri, because he won’t thank you for it. Watch him from a distance, watch over him like that. When he’s a man, then tell him the truth. Who knows? Maybe he’ll find out himself. But for now, don’t rock his boat, love, you don’t know what the upshot might be.’