by Jessie Keane
Ruby was staring at him. Now she felt more than irritated, more than embarrassed. She felt a surge of pure rage at this sanctimonious bastard well up and nearly choke her. But . . . she’d loved him. And now he was sitting here saying she was disgraced. When he had made her pregnant. It was the same with Charlie and Joe, they acted like she was a whore when her only crime had been to fall in love and to give herself absolutely to the man she had fallen in love with.
Of course, he got no blame. His wife might complain and cry about it, but she would accept it because what was the alternative? To be cast out, sent back to a grudging family to live out her life a sad spinster – because of course divorce was out of the question. Vanessa was tied to this man and to the decisions he made, for better or worse.
And now Ruby had been sucked into his orbit, and she was having the law laid down to her, too. Just like at home, where first Dad and now Charlie ruled the roost and was shouting at the top of his voice like a cockerel on a muck heap, dominating all around him. She was sick of it.
‘The only logical outcome is that Ruby should have the child and that we should keep it as our own,’ he said.
Both women eyed each other in outrage as the words were spoken.
Ruby’s child would be taken from her.
And Vanessa, although she couldn’t produce a healthy baby herself, would have to accept this child as her own, nurture it, love it, see it grow safely into adulthood.
But it might look like her, thought Vanessa, eyeing the tall, beautiful, black-haired woman before her. She didn’t know what she had expected tonight, but she hadn’t anticipated a young woman as stunning as Ruby. The girl had a natural elegance about her, wearing a simple Empire-line red dress that almost – not quite – covered the growing bump of her pregnancy. If the child did look like Ruby, then how would she be able to face it, day after day?
She wouldn’t. She knew it would be beyond her.
Seeing Ruby here, for the first time, Vanessa was struck by how healthy she looked, how robust; a perfect female specimen. While she . . . she was nothing. She was too weak to have babies. A thread of utter hatred uncurled in her stomach as she gazed at Ruby.
‘What if it . . . looks like . . . ?’ she asked hesitantly, still staring at Ruby.
‘I’ve told you,’ said Cornelius smoothly. ‘I’m certain the child will be white, darling. Positive.’
‘But what if it’s not?’
‘Then of course we’ll have to think again,’ he said. He wouldn’t even consider that as an option.
The baby would be a Bray, he would look like a Bray. But if – God forbid – he should be dark like Ruby, then she was on her own and Charlie Darke could go and whistle for his money. Cornelius wouldn’t want the child, and Vanessa would shun it completely. A black-haired dark-skinned baby, born to two fair-haired pure-white parents . . . ? It would be unbearable, impossible, out of the question. Vanessa felt enough of a failure already, without having to tolerate anything as ridiculous as that.
‘No, it’s . . . I can’t . . .’ said Vanessa, clutching nervously at her throat, her eyes frantic.
‘But, darling, it is exactly what we want,’ said Cornelius almost tenderly.
Ruby sat there like stone, listening to her lover talking to his wife in that intimate, caressing voice.
This is the woman he’s committed to, she realized painfully. With me, it was only ever just sex.
Vanessa was shaking her head, torn in two by this. Her husband had taken a mistress; that was insult enough. Now he wanted her to accept his mistress’s baby. But . . . oh God, she so wanted a baby. And here was her way to get one, with no questions asked, no painful sex, no chilling fear that her inadequate body might reject him, and worse, might reject yet another child.
‘It can’t work,’ she said desperately. ‘It can’t.’
‘Darling, it can. And I am going to tell you how.’
He explained it to the two listening women – his mistress and his wife – just as his mother had explained it to him. When Ruby started to really show, she would move into a house that Cornelius would rent well away from where she lived now. Vanessa would stay in a little place he owned on the Kent coast until the baby was born. Then they would bring the baby back to Brayfield, and Ruby would go home to the East End, and carry on with her life a great deal richer than she had been before.
‘You’re going to buy my baby off me,’ said Ruby when he stopped speaking.
‘Exactly,’ he said, as if the prospect pleased him. ‘No one will know that Vanessa has not given birth. We’ll say she was delicate and needed the sea air to see her through the pregnancy. And no one need ever know that you had a child, Ruby.’
Ruby looked at him dully. The man she loved. The man she had been fool enough, stupid enough, to hope one day might love her. Who was now discussing her body and its contents like she was a commodity, to be bargained over, bought and sold. She felt it sting her, a knife blade straight between the ribs; her heart literally ached with the pain of it.
‘Someone already does know,’ she said at last.
‘Who? Oh, you mean your brothers. But I told you, you’ll be paid. Handsomely rewarded.’
‘No, I mean Vi, the woman I work with at the Windy. She’s noticed I’m filling out. And her sister, Betsy.’
‘Then we must move soon, get things organized.’
The two women looked at each other with blank dislike. But . . . he was right. It made sense.
‘But what if, when I see it, I can’t . . .’ Ruby hesitated, frowning. ‘What if I can’t bear to give it up?’
Cornelius shook his head. This was the stupidest question he had ever heard. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re a woman alone, unmarried. The scandal would be dreadful, you’d be spat at in the street, ostracized. You can’t keep the child. And wouldn’t you want a good home, two comfortably secure parents, for your baby? Good schooling, the chance to grow up strong and educated and well-fed? Wouldn’t you want the very best for him? I’m sure you would, and that is what we can provide.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ she said uncertainly. Him? She looked at Cornelius, and now the very act of looking at him disgusted her. He was excited by this, seeing himself already as the father of a boy he could put down for Winchester, for Eton. A boy who would follow him to Cambridge and beyond.
‘Talk to your brother,’ he said. ‘He’ll advise you.’
‘Charlie? All Charlie will do is milk you for every penny, don’t you know that?’ Ruby almost smiled; but it was a sour, bitter smile. Her great romance had come down to this: a cold transaction.
‘I’m prepared to pay,’ he said. He reached out a hand and took Vanessa’s. ‘Whatever it takes.’
Ruby sat there feeling like shit. She wanted to shriek, to stand up and slap his arrogant, smug face; but he was right. She couldn’t keep the kid. And they could. They could give a child everything, she could only offer the poor little mite disgrace and a terrible start in life. People shouting bastard at it, and treating her like a pariah. She knew it. But it was bitter to admit it. Bitter and hard.
She sat there and stared at them. And she vowed then and there that when it came to striking the final deal, Charlie must bargain hard on her behalf. She wanted to take them for as much as she could.
44
Months went by and Churcher heard nothing about the van used in the Post Office robbery. In fact, after his initial excitement at the discovery of some connection between Charlie Darke’s lot and the mail job, he’d all but forgotten about it.
So he was surprised to turn in for work one day and find himself called into his sergeant’s office to talk about it. The super was in there, too.
‘The van was definitely taken for scrap,’ said the sergeant. ‘To a yard over in Camden Town – Baker’s.’
Then what the fuck are we doing standing about here? wondered Churcher.
‘The yard was hit in a raid,’ said the sergeant.
Shit.
‘We
went over there yesterday, it was flattened.’
Dead end then, thought Churcher.
‘Crater the size of God’s arse there, you wouldn’t believe it.’ The sergeant was eyeing Churcher. He was a good lad, ambitious. Diligent. The sort the force needed. He could see how gutted Churcher was at this news. And he enjoyed playing him, teasing him, just a bit. Just for a minute or two.
‘But there were a few pieces at the back of the yard that escaped the worst of the blast,’ said the super, getting to his feet and picking up his hat from the desk. ‘Our boys over there have just phoned. The van’s there. Come on, Churcher, look lively. Let’s take a look.’
The yard looked like someone had taken a giant hammer to it and gone splat. It was raining, a thin, dismal, foggy downpour on a scene of devastation. Their spirits dipped. Of course it was bloody raining. It had rained a hundred times since the mail van robbery, and the van had been standing out in it. There wouldn’t be a damned trace left of anything. What were they, crazy? They picked their way over smouldering bits of scrap with the yard’s owner, who was inconsolable about the state of his formerly lucrative business.
‘Look at this place, how am I supposed to make a ruddy living now?’ he moaned.
‘At least you weren’t here when it hit,’ said the super. ‘This it over here?’
The owner nodded morosely.
The mail van was there, dust-covered but intact.
Churcher went eagerly forward, looking at the front bumper, the wheel arches. There was nothing on the driver’s side, nothing that looked like a dent, a scratch, or even a smear of blood. Nothing.
‘Bugger,’ he said.
‘Here,’ said the super, bending over on the passenger side of the van. The sergeant and PC Churcher went forward, stooping down to look where he pointed. ‘That’s a dent, isn’t it? And look – there’s blood there, just under the wheel arch.’ He stood up while they had a closer look.
Slowly, Churcher stood up. He was grinning.
‘That’s blood,’ he said.
‘It hit the dog,’ said the sergeant in wonder. ‘It hit the damned dog. Then Charlie Darke got out and shouted, “Back up a bit.” And whichever of his boys was at the wheel backed the van up. Then he picked the dog up, chucked it in the back, and they drove the animal over to his fancy piece Rachel Tranter for her to see to it. It lived. She was out walking it to the shops . . .’
‘And one of the Special Reservists came across her arguing with an old man who said it was his dog. It is his dog,’ said the super.
‘We’ve got him,’ said Churcher triumphantly. ‘We bloody have. We’ve got the thieving bastard.’
45
Cornelius was having such a worrying time with all the baby business and Vanessa’s bad nerves that he had to take time out to relax. He had many friends, many contacts; in particular he was friends with a wealthy businessman called Astorre Danieri, who owned a gambling club in the West End and had other interests – some of them dubious – around the city.
‘Mi casa es su casa, as they say in Spain,’ Astorre would say to him with a grin. ‘Come and meet the family.’
Cornelius did.
You knew where you were with suave urban crooks like Astorre. Cross them and they’d have your balls fried and served up as hors d’oeuvres, but do them a favour or two – and Cornelius was very well placed to do favours – and they were your friends for life.
Astorre was pleased to be associated with a man of standing like Cornelius Bray.
‘Come and meet my friend, he went to Cambridge, did you know that? He was an MP, you know. He’s the son of Sir Hilary Bray,’ Astorre would say to his close circle of scary-looking friends, basking in the reflected glow of Cornelius’s status.
‘We call him the Palladium,’ Astorre would say with a shout of laughter.
‘Why is that?’ the friends would ask.
‘Because he’s twice a night. Seriously, watch out: if it moves, my friend Cornelius will fuck it.’
There were benefits for Cornelius in this association, too; he found the border-edge criminal element extremely stimulating. He knew Astorre was always teetering just beyond the reach of the law, and he liked that. But Cornelius’s high connections kept Astorre safe; and in Astorre’s company, he was safe too – safe to explore the wilder sexual aspects of his own personality now that Ruby was off limits.
‘My friend,’ said Astorre proudly, introducing him to his family: the small insignificant woman who was his wife, and his three boys – Tito, Fabio and Vittore. All three had a cold, feral look about them. Tito was the eldest; already handsome and imposing with his ice-blue stare. One day he would take over Astorre’s empire.
‘Charmed,’ said Cornelius, and chatted and put them all at their ease. He took dinner with the family, made them laugh. Then Astorre and Cornelius went to Astorre’s club to flirt with the hostesses who moved between the tables, dispensing drinks.
‘Which one do you like best?’ asked Astorre, blowing out a massive blue plume of cigar smoke as he grinned at his friend.
Cornelius looked at him. ‘The hostesses?’
‘Of course, the hostesses. You like one? Pick one,’ said Astorre while the music played and the hostesses skimmed in and out of the packed tables in their fake-French-maid outfits.
‘The little blonde,’ said Cornelius without hesitation. He had been flirting with her all evening, he liked her saucy over-familiar manner and her lush curves; he’d been picturing her naked, wondering what she’d be like in bed.
‘That’s a good choice,’ Astorre congratulated him. ‘Have her tonight. She’s yours.’
Privately, Astorre thought Cornelius a fool. A highly bred Lothario, careless enough to be led by his cock into all sorts of trouble. He would never be so stupid, and neither would his boy Tito.
Astorre adored Tito. He had told him about the mail van loot, and about the three idiots who had gone to their graves rather than betray Charlie and Joe Darke’s secrets.
‘Then why not tackle the Darke brothers themselves, get it out of them?’ asked Tito.
‘You are young and impetuous,’ said Astorre fondly. ‘Those three were nothing, just foot soldiers. Start a fight with Charlie and Joe Darke themselves and the streets will be running with blood.’
‘But we’re not afraid of them,’ said Tito.
‘Of course not. But why not play a cleverer game? We have them watched. Sooner or later, they’ll go to fetch the money, and when they do – we pounce.’
Tito wasn’t over-pleased with this idea, but what the hell? They had plenty from their own businesses, without plundering the Darke haul. And Astorre’s word was law.
46
Ruby’s time was approaching fast. Her only contact with her old life now was Charlie, who kept calling round to keep an eye on her. Charlie had negotiated the deal for her. She had already been paid half the amount that Cornelius and Vanessa were willing to give for her child – ten thousand pounds. The final ten thousand – chicken feed to them, a fortune to her – would be paid when they had the child, her child, safe with them.
‘After all, the sprog might be born dead or something,’ said Charlie. ‘They got a point, I s’pose.’
Ruby sat in the same window day after day, looking out on a street she didn’t know, at people she didn’t know either. She wore an old pawn-shop-purchase gold wedding band when she went out, to look respectable, but she rarely did. When she went to the shops, no one spoke to her because no one knew her. She liked it like that. She had her ration book, she went to the grocer’s and bought food, but she talked to no one.
She had a story ready, just in case anyone enquired. She was a war widow, and she had been bombed out of the East End and that was why she was here. That was the story. But she never needed to use it, because no one asked, no one spoke.
She missed her friends at the Windy; in particular, she missed Vi. But she didn’t feel she could talk to her, not while all this was going on. Charlie said Betsy wa
nted to call on her, but Ruby had said a flat no to that. Betsy would be all sympathetic on the surface, gloating beneath.
Sometimes the sirens went and she had to go down the shelter, but mostly she just sat in the window, hugging her huge bump, feeling the child inside her kick like a centre forward and feeling a rise of joy at the movement – and then an overwhelming blanket of sadness would steal over her as she thought of what she must do.
It was going to be a girl, she thought. She was massively fat with the child, and boys only carried at the front, everyone knew that. So a girl it would be, a little black-haired girl like her, that she could dress up and play with and . . . but no. She had to stop that train of thought, right there.
The child – even if it was a girl, a useless girl and not the boy she knew Cornelius craved – was not hers. She had sold it, for its own good. She had to keep reminding herself of that. The child would benefit, and she had to hope it was blond, and male, for its sake.
She might be bereft and heartbroken, but the child would be happy, well-fed, cared for, given a far better start in life than she could ever hope to provide as a single disgraced woman of uncertain origin.
All too soon, it was time. Ruby awoke in the night and felt the cramping take hold of her. She staggered from the bed, her waters breaking as she stood up, liquid cascading down her legs. She staggered to the next room, and woke Charlie, who phoned Cornelius.
‘One thing’s for damned sure,’ said the stocky Irish midwife Charlie had called in to attend her, without sympathy, ‘you may not have felt it going in, but you’re certainly going to feel it coming out. Now come on. Push harder.’
Ruby had never known such pain. She sweated and shuddered on the bed, spreadeagled and horribly uncomfortable on crackling sheets of old newspaper that the midwife had laid out underneath her.