by Tara Hyland
As she stood on deck, hidden from view, watching the chaotic scene, Declan came over to her.
‘You off then?’
He had offered her a place to stay for a few nights, in the boarding house where he bedded down, ‘Just until you get on your feet.’ But Cara had refused. She’d got the feeling that he’d only agreed to help her to England because of his sister, but now they were here, it wasn’t fair to be a burden.
‘Yeah, I want to keep moving.’ She was right, he looked relieved. In a way, she didn’t blame him. He’d already risked his job and livelihood for her, a stranger. She couldn’t ask any more of him.
‘Well, good luck then, I guess,’ he said awkwardly. He dug into his pocket and held out a ten-bob note, a last-minute attack of guilt making him feel that he should do something for the poor bedraggled creature in front of him.
Cara hesitated. She felt bad accepting the money, but she had nothing else and she would need something for the journey.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and then turned away. She didn’t want to ask him for directions to where she was going. The fewer people who knew, the better. Somewhere along the way she’d ask a stranger how to get to London.
Because that’s where she intended to go: to London, to try to find Annie Connolly and her kids, the people she’d lived with until she was seven years old. With her mother and Theresa and Niamh now gone, the Connollys were the closest she’d ever got to calling anyone family, and it was the last place she remembered being truly happy. For Cara, it was the obvious destination to flee to now. And the fewer people who knew, the less likely it was that anyone could find her. She needed to disappear completely.
PART FOUR
1962–69
Growing Pains
‘Mistakes are the growing pains of wisdom.’
William George Jordan,
American Essayist, 1864–1928
Chapter Thirty-five
Tangier, Morocco, February 1962
Gabriel Stanhope walked alone through the souk, ignoring the stalls and traders as he went. After nearly two years in Tangier, he was immune to all the colour and noise and smells of the medina, the old part of the city. No one bothered him as he passed. With his darkened skin, long beard and billowing white robe, he could be mistaken for a local.
Turning off onto a quieter way, he followed the labyrinth of alleys in the direction of the Kasbah. A little way further, he paused outside one of the low, white stone buildings, and knocked on the wooden door. An old man answered, as dark and withered as a raisin.
‘As-Salāmu Àlayka.’ Gabriel offered the standard greeting, peace be upon you.
‘Wa alayka as-salām’ the man responded.
Gabriel pressed some coins into the proprietor’s hand and stepped inside, out of the heat of the day. A pretty courtyard, with a trickling fountain, led through to a cool, dark room. The shutters were closed and the air heavy with the sweet scent of opium. Gabriel picked his way through, stepping over the reclining bodies of writers and musicians, artists and expat aristocrats, all looking to find inspiration and enlightenment among the flesh-pots and drug dens of Morocco. Finding a space away from everyone else, Gabriel lay down against a pile of embroidered cushions and waited for a young boy to bring over the heavy wooden pipe.
After two years in Morocco, Gabriel’s routine was as familiar to him as breathing. He’d travelled to North Africa from Spain, and he couldn’t see himself ever leaving. The seedy city of Tangier was known as a refuge for bohemians and lost souls, and he fitted right in. No one would ever have guessed that he was the heir of one of America’s richest businessmen – which was exactly what he wanted.
Not that the Stanhope name meant much any more. From what Gabriel understood, his father had never recovered from the scandal surrounding Frances Fitzgerald’s death. One dead wife could be seen as an unhappy accident; two looked more like a suspicious coincidence. Not that Gabriel knew any of this for certain. He’d had no contact with his father, and he had no intention of ever speaking to him again. It was easier that way. But occasionally he would pick up a paper and read an account of the tragedies that had befallen his family, the salacious details rehashed for the world to feast on. The journalists always seemed to dwell on Olivia – his poor, poor sister. They reported that she’d never recovered from the electro-shock therapy, and now lived at Stanhope Castle, being cared for twenty-four hours a day by the housekeeper, Hilda. A sad, terrible fate for a young woman, everyone agreed. Gabriel felt bitter laughter rise in his throat. If only they knew the real truth.
At the thought of Olivia, Gabriel took a long drag on the opium pipe, filling his lungs with the sweet smoke. Outside, he could hear the call to prayer begin. As he fell back onto the cushions, he closed his eyes and felt his guilt and regret drifting away, allowing him to forget everything that had happened and find some peace, for a little time at least.
Chapter Thirty-six
London, February 1962
‘All right, Mum?’
Danny Connolly strutted into the kitchen, planting a heavy hand on his mother’s shoulder and a kiss on her forehead.
‘Not too bad, son.’
Annie, who’d been reading the Daily Express over a mug of tea, smiled up at her favourite child. At eighteen, Danny had grown into a strong, handsome man, and she couldn’t help feeling proud. Her two girls, Bronagh and Maureen, were married with homes of their own, and by the time they’d gone she’d frankly been pleased to see the back of them. But Danny was still living with her, and she hoped that wouldn’t change for a long time.
‘Are you in for your tea, love?’ she asked him now.
‘Nah. I’m just gonna change, then head back out.’
She wasn’t surprised. He had so many girls on the go; when he wasn’t out grafting, he could be found with one of them. More than half the week he was out, but he did like to come back here for the odd night – even if it was just to have a good kip, get his washing done and eat a home-cooked meal.
Annie got to her feet. ‘You can’t go out on an empty stomach. I’ll make you a sandwich while you’re getting ready, and you’ll sit down and eat it like a normal human being.’ Her voice brooked no argument.
‘Whatever you say, Mum.’
If any of Danny’s friends had seen the way he caved in, they’d have been amazed. Out on the streets, even the hardest man wouldn’t dare cross Danny Connolly, but when it came to his mother, he was a pussycat. She was his only weak spot, and the only woman he’d ever really respected.
It was only out of consideration for her that he’d put up with that bastard Liam Earley for as long as he did. After that man had moved in with them, the beating that Franny had witnessed all those years ago had become a regular feature of Danny’s life. Liam had been clever enough to hide the worst from Annie – and what she did suspect, she’d overlooked because she’d become reliant on Liam for money and companionship. But the abuse from his mother’s lover had shaped the boy forever, toughening Danny up and turning him into the hard man that he now was.
By the time Danny reached fifteen, he’d grown taller and stronger than Liam. He’d continued to take the odd beating, but when Liam had turned his fists on Annie, Danny had been ready to act. That night, he’d given Liam the hiding of his life – repaying him for every time he’d been knocked about over the years. After Danny had finished, he’d dumped Liam outside the Royal London Hospital. The doctors and nurses had done their best, but the man had still ended up losing the sight in his left eye, and while the scars on his face had healed, they would never fade: a permanent reminder of the punishment meted out.
Rumours about the young lad’s actions had quickly spread through the East End. Annie had worried that he’d end up in jail, although Danny had been ready to do his time. Liam had been spitting blood, determined to shop his stepson, but before the police had a chance to interview him, Finnbar Sullivan, the head of the East End’s most influential and feared Irish gang, sent someone to have a qu
iet word. When a DC finally got round to taking a statement from Liam, he told them that he’d been robbed and beaten up in the street.
Of course Finnbar hadn’t done the favour out of the goodness of his heart – he’d seen something in Danny that made him think he’d be an asset to his organisation. The following week, he’d asked the young lad to meet with him.
Danny had dutifully turned up at Finnbar Sullivan’s boxing club as he’d been told. The gang leader was out the back in the changing rooms, having his hands bandaged up. Twenty years earlier, Finnbar had started off as a bare-knuckle fighter, and he still liked to go a couple of rounds.
Sitting astride a bench, a towel thrown around his meaty shoulders, Finnbar said to Danny, ‘So you think you’ve got what it takes to come and work for me?’
‘Yes, sir, Mr Sullivan.’
‘Cocky little bugger, ain’t you?’
In fact, standing before Finnbar, with a couple of the gang leader’s henchmen looking on, Danny had never felt more like a scared little boy. But he knew that he needed to stand his ground, so he simply shrugged in answer.
Finnbar chuckled. ‘That’s good. I like a bit of confidence. I think we could get along very well.’ And then his eyes grew hard. ‘As long as you remember who’s in charge.’ He jabbed a finger at his own chest. ‘Me. Everything goes through me, and nothing goes down without my say-so. The minute you start taking from me, or thinking you can go off on your own sweet way, I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. And don’t you forget that. So as long as you can live with that, then the job’s yours.’
Finnbar had his fingers in many pies: everything from debt collecting to running girls. He wanted Danny to start off on protection money. It was a simple enough job. He’d go round to businesses in the area, everything from restaurants to grocery stores, and collect cash from them. In exchange, Finnbar would make sure nothing happened to their business. If anyone got lairy and refused to pay, it was up to Danny to impress upon them why they needed to cough up. His size was usually enough to persuade them, which was why Finnbar had hired him in the first place.
If Annie had wanted more than a life of crime for her boy, who’d been smart enough to pass his Eleven-plus and get into grammar school, she knew there was no point saying anything. Like his father, Danny had grown up with little respect for authority. And while Annie might not agree with all of her son’s choices, she still had to admire his no-nonsense resolve. She realised now that she should have thrown Liam out years earlier, and it shamed her to think that she’d waited for her teenage son to step in. Maybe he wasn’t ever going to be a doctor or a lawyer, but he was doing well for himself in his own way – in the East End way. He was a hard man, a Jack-the-lad, who thought school was for mugs. He was smart and he was strong, and he wasn’t afraid to act. But best of all, he had the brains to be more than an enforcer. After three years working for Finnbar, he was making his way up in the organisation, and also in the world.
Smiling affectionately at her son, Annie took a hunk of bread and started to cut two doorsteps. She got out butter, cheese and ham from the new fridge – provided by Danny, along with the new television and couches in the sitting room.
‘Go on with you now,’ she said. ‘I’ll have this ready by the time you get back down here.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Danny was already halfway up the stairs when the front doorbell rang. ‘Want me to get that?’ he called back down.
‘Leave it to me. It’s probably Bernie.’
But when Annie opened the door, it wasn’t her friend Bernadette after all. Instead, in the doorway stood a bedraggled, skinny girl, wearing loose-fitting jeans, rolled up at the bottom, and a shirt that swamped her. She was no more than fourteen, and with her hair tucked under an old man’s cap, she had the look of a runaway.
‘Sorry, love,’ Annie said immediately, spotting the bag in her hand. ‘I ain’t taking lodgers no more.’
That was another benefit of Danny’s work. He made sure she had enough so that she no longer had to clean up after other people. It was nice to have the place to herself, although sometimes she missed the company. Not that she could ever admit that to Danny.
Annie made to close the door, but the girl put out a hand to stop her.
‘Wait,’ the stranger said.
Annie glanced up, feeling irritated. But then she saw the girl’s face again, more clearly this time, because her features were illuminated by the hall light. There was something familiar about her: the dark mop of hair peeking out from the cap, the large green eyes, the long, skinny body . . .
She peered closer. ‘Cara?’
The girl gave her a weak smile. ‘Hello, Aunty Annie. Mind if I come in?’
Cara sat at the kitchen table as Annie bustled round, making her hot tea and a snack to boot. The house looked more robust than she remembered; there had obviously been some money spent here. She was pleased that the Connollys were doing well for themselves – and that they were still living at the same address. She wasn’t sure what she would have done otherwise.
Annie set down a sandwich in front of her. ‘How’s that for you?’
Cara didn’t reply, she simply picked up the bread and took one large bite, and then another, stuffing her mouth full. After the journey she’d had, Cara had no energy to talk – she was exhausted and starving.
The money that Declan had given her hadn’t been enough to pay for the coach or train down from Liverpool. So she’d had no choice but to hitch a lift. Someone had told her a good place to stand was by the M62 motorway. A man in a Morris Minor had come by first. He’d been well-dressed in a suit and tie, the interior of his car spotless. But Cara had hesitated. Maybe she was being over-sensitive, but there was something about him that reminded her of James Buchanan. She could see something predatory in his eyes, a reason to feel uncomfortable. So she’d turned him down and waited for another lift. It was half an hour before a bright yellow Mini had pulled up. It was a tight fit – there were four of them already inside the tiny two-door car – two boys in the front, and their girlfriends squashed into the back. They had been up in Liverpool that weekend to see a band called the Beatles. Now, on their way back to London, they had been more than happy to have her join them.
By the time they’d reached the North Circular Road, it had been nearly forty-eight hours since Cara had last slept. The group had been going to Hammersmith, so they’d dropped her there, and she’d made her way over to Whitechapel by tube. As it had been almost eight years since she’d last been to the Connollys’ house, it had taken her a while to get her bearings. She’d had to ask three different people how to find the street.
Annie had asked her surprisingly few questions, given that she’d turned up out of the blue like this. And Cara hadn’t known herself how much she’d want to share. But now, settled at Annie’s kitchen table and feeling like she’d returned home, she found that she wanted to open up about everything that had happened to her.
She gave Annie an abridged version of the intervening years. Telling her about the way her mother had dumped her at Theresa’s was cathartic. Cara saw the outrage in Annie’s eyes as she heard about Franny and her broken promises, and felt pleased that someone was as appalled as her about her mother’s behaviour.
‘All these years, I thought you were both living with family in Ireland. That’s where your mam told me youse were off to before she left, and I had no reason to doubt her. I hadn’t a clue that she was going gallivanting off to Hollywood like that.’
The older woman shook her head disbelievingly. She’d heard of Frances Fitzgerald, of course. She’d been a Big Thing for a brief time back in the fifties. Annie recalled seeing her in a film once – but had never even suspected that the glamorous movie star was her old friend. The hair, the make-up, the American accent, even the way the actress had held herself – it had all made her unrecognisable as the poverty-stricken young mother that she’d once been. In fact, Annie would go so far as to bet that no one who’d known Franny
Healey – not even her own relatives – would have guessed that she was one and the same as Frances Fitzgerald.
It was all so much to take in. Annie could hardly believe everything that Cara had told her. With hindsight, perhaps it had seemed a little strange that she’d never heard from Franny after she’d left, but they’d fallen out over that scut Liam, and Annie had just assumed her friend was holding a grudge. To think that all this had happened without her realising. She reached out and took Cara’s hand. ‘If I’d thought for one minute that she’d abandoned you like that, I’d have done everything in my power to find you. You do know that, don’t you, love?’
Annie stopped then, and Cara guessed it was because she didn’t want to say anything openly critical of Franny, in case Cara was still upset over her mother’s death. Well, she wasn’t, Cara thought darkly. She’d hardened her heart to Franny a long time ago.
Cara moved on from there to talk about life at the orphanage. Annie seemed sympathetic, but not surprised, by the stories Cara told of the nuns – until she got to what had happened to Niamh. With her friend’s death so raw still, Cara found herself choking over the words, and Annie’s eyes filled with tears, too.
‘Oh, God love you.’ Annie pulled Cara to her. ‘You’ve been through the wringer, haven’t you?’
Cara breathed in Annie’s scent of carbolic soap and cigarettes, surprised that it still seemed so familiar after all these years. It was a huge comfort and relief to be back with someone who cared.
The thunder of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted the moment. A second later Danny burst into the kitchen. It was nearly eight years since she’d last seen Danny Connolly, but Cara recognised him straight away. He was a man now, not a ten-year-old boy, but he still had that same rough confidence. And, Lord, he was attractive, in a strong, thuggish way: at least six two, with broad shoulders, his dark hair cut brutally short. Wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket, he looked like Marlon Brando in The Wild One, which she’d seen posters for during one of the orphanage’s Saturday trips to the pictures.