by Jessie Keane
Somewhere under there was Rachel.
He was surging forward again, shouting her name, and now three reservists joined in. They held him back, preventing him from frying himself on Rachel’s funeral pyre.
‘There’s no one left alive in there, son,’ said an older man among them. ‘There can’t be. It was a direct hit. I’m sorry.’
‘No! She’s there, she’s got to be there!’ He was babbling, hurling himself against their mightier force.
‘No. I’m sorry, sir. Very sorry. There’s no one left.’
Charlie stopped struggling and stood there, staring in sick fascination at the devastation.
My God, they’re right. She’s dead under there somewhere.
And then he saw it: the blackened fingers of a woman’s hand, an arm, a shoulder clad in dust-covered cream cotton, the blouse she so often wore. And there were some silken strands of hair, Rachel’s hair. There was no head, though; no body. He was looking at part of a corpse, not the whole of one.
They released him, patted his shoulders. Rigid with shock, he stood there, his last living image of her strong in his mind – his Rachel, laughing and indulgent. He looked again at all that remained of her. Then he turned away and walked back, across the street, barely knowing what he was doing, barely caring.
Rachel’s dead.
He could feel tears wetting his cheeks; he hadn’t cried since he was a boy standing over his mother’s grave. But he cried now, silent tears of utter grief.
‘Mr Charles Darke?’ said a voice behind him.
He turned. There were three coppers there, watching him intently.
‘Who wants him?’ he asked, without much interest.
Two of them stepped forward, one on each side of him; they grabbed his arms. He didn’t resist.
‘Mr Charles Darke, I am arresting you on suspicion of armed robbery involving one of His Majesty’s mail vans . . .’
The words went on and on, but Charlie wasn’t even listening. Nothing mattered any more. She was dead.
49
Joe was in a state of terror for weeks afterwards. He was waiting for the knock on the door, waiting for the police to come and get him, too. Or something even worse, maybe. There was still no news of Chewy, Stevie or Ben. Ben’s missus Moira was still kicking off, wondering where her meal ticket had got to, the cow.
It felt sinister, somehow, all three going like that with no word. It was like someone had got to them maybe. He thought of Ben, stupidly spending out on flashy coats for Moira, and felt uneasy. Worse, with Charlie gone, for the first time in his life he felt alone. And afraid.
It would make sense to do a runner, but Joe found he couldn’t do it. The rozzers were watching his movements anyway, he wouldn’t get far. And there was trouble right here at home. Ruby was shot away since she’d dropped the sprogs. He knew about Charlie’s involvement, that the girl had gone to the father, that bastard Bray, and the boy had been got rid of. A lot of money had changed hands, a deal had been done.
Now Ruby moved around the place like an automaton, cooking, cleaning, tending Dad, whose health was getting progressively worse every day. The old man had always doted on Charlie. Now Charlie was gone, held under arrest, and Dad seemed to find little else worth living for.
When she wasn’t busy around the house, Ruby just sat at the kitchen table and stared at nothing. Out in the streets, there was noise, laughter. People were stringing up loops of bunting, hanging out flags. The war was over. Now it was VE day, a day of huge happiness, street parties planned, everyone busy and boisterous. Hitler was defeated, dead in his Berlin bunker. The world was delirious with summer and celebration.
Betsy came over to see her. Betsy was in bits too, her dreams of happiness and marriage shattered. Charlie was banged up, awaiting trial.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she kept wailing to anyone who would listen.
‘There’s nothing we can do but sit tight and hope they can’t make the prosecution stick,’ Joe told her.
‘But they will,’ said Betsy dully. ‘Ain’t that the truth? He did it.’
So did I, thought Joe, his spine crawling with apprehension. But Charlie wouldn’t finger him, not in a million years. Would he?
‘What do you think, Ruby?’ asked Betsy as they sat around the table, their faces as long as a wet weekend.
Ruby looked up. ‘What?’
Betsy sent a quick glance Joe’s way. This was what Ruby was like now. She had disappeared inside herself, withdrawn from them all. It irritated the hell out of Betsy.
‘Don’t you even care about Charlie?’ she demanded.
Ruby gave a tight half-smile. ‘Why should I?’
‘For God’s sake! He’s your brother,’ said Betsy.
‘He’s a bastard. Charlie’s always been a bastard.’
‘How can you sit there and say that?’ Betsy was aghast.
‘Yeah. Come on, Ruby. Blood’s thicker than water,’ said Joe.
‘Is it?’ Ruby was shaking her head now. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what, Joe. All I know is that he’s not here throwing his weight around the place any more, and I like that. All I know is that Dad’s lying in bed in the parlour and he’s no trouble any more either – because the truth is he’s pining away because Charlie’s not here. And you know what? I’m just glad to be rid of them both. They’ve always treated me like dirt.’
Joe looked taken aback.
Betsy, shocked by what Ruby had just said, looked from sister to brother indignantly.
‘Ain’t you going to say nothing about that, Joe?’ she asked, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘Poor Charlie’s in prison, and . . .’
‘Don’t be a silly cow all your life,’ said Ruby, standing up. She leaned her fists on the table and looked at them both. ‘All right, Joe, if you won’t tell her, I will.’
‘Sis . . .’ Joe shook his head.
‘Your wonderful Charlie was on his way over to the widow Tranter’s on the night the police picked him up. Joe’s visited him and he knows. That’s how much he thinks of you, Betsy. He was off to see her. But you know what’s ironic? Her house was flattened in a raid and her with it.’
‘Ruby . . .’ Joe was standing up too, shooting her warning looks.
‘The widow Tranter’s dead,’ Ruby went on relentlessly. ‘And your Charlie? He’s heartbroken. He don’t care if they bang him up for a thousand years, because what’s life to him, without her?’
Betsy had gone white. She jumped to her feet.
‘This is all lies,’ she yelled, and lashed out, striking Ruby hard across the cheek.
Ruby recoiled. Her cheek turned red where she’d been struck. But she straightened and stared coldly at her friend.
‘It’s not lies, you fool. It’s the truth. He’s not worth your tears, he’s not worth that.’ Ruby snapped her fingers. ‘He’s betrayed you a dozen times over; he’s a worthless conniving piece of shit.’
‘Shut the fuck up, Ruby,’ said Joe. Betsy was sobbing, racing for the door.
‘It’s not true,’ she shouted back at Ruby.
‘Yeah. It is.’
‘You’re not my friend any more,’ yelled Betsy as she grabbed the doorknob. ‘Don’t you ever talk to me again, you lying bitch!’
‘Happy now?’ asked Joe, as the door slammed shut behind Betsy.
‘Do I look happy?’
The broom handle was banging on the wall. Dad needed attention.
‘Better get in there,’ said Joe, his face thunderous.
‘Yeah,’ said Ruby, and went into her father’s room to see what he wanted.
Joe dashed out into the street after Betsy. He caught up with her on the corner.
‘Bets!’ He grabbed her arm, pulled her round. Her face was streaked with tears.
‘Is it true?’ she asked him.
‘Bets, don’t . . .’
‘Come on. I want to know. Is any of what she’s saying true? People were talking about it weeks, months back. Charlie and the widow Tranter. And I as
ked you about it. You remember that, Joe? I asked you, and you said it was ridiculous, and I thought it was ridiculous too. Just stupid. That ugly dried-up old mare, and Charlie? Stupid. But . . . was it true?’
Joe stared at her face. He’d always liked Betsy. She was lively, she was fun. He was a serious, somewhat shy man and he found her liveliness beguiling. But . . . she’d always been his brother’s girl. Now that could change. Charlie hadn’t been interested in her much, not really. But Joe was. He always had been.
‘It’s true, Bets. I’m sorry,’ he told her softly.
‘No!’ she flung herself into his arms.
Joe held on to her while she sobbed out all the hurt Charlie had caused her.
‘Oh God, Joe, they won’t take you too, will they?’ She looked up at his face, and he thought how pretty she was, even red-nosed and tearful with her lovely eyes wet and bloodshot.
‘No, Bets. They won’t take me too,’ he promised her.
‘I couldn’t stand that,’ said Betsy, and buried her face in his chest. She clung to Joe like a rock. She liked Joe. And, after all, he had his share of the Post Office money somewhere – didn’t he?
‘They won’t take me, Bets,’ he repeated, holding her close.
But his promise could be an empty one. He knew it. The police were watching him. And he strongly believed that other people were too, blokes mixed up in the same sort of stuff as him. Without Charlie, he knew he was a sitting duck. But he wouldn’t run. Especially not now.
50
Charlie Darke got thirty years for the mail van robbery, but the cash was never recovered. No one came for Joe. Charlie had seen him right. But Joe had other worries. Dad’s will to live was severely weakened by the absence of his favourite child, and one night Ruby was bringing in his cocoa and dully wondering what had become of her life when she found him unconscious. Much as she tried, she couldn’t rouse him. And his breathing was odd, wheezing and rattling in his chest.
She called Joe in.
‘Better fetch the doctor,’ he said, and left her with the old man.
Ruby sat there and watched her father. She felt no love for him. She was certain he felt none for her. No more could he tower over her with his belt, no more could he inflict pain on her. She had never known a moment’s kindness or tenderness from this sad wreck of a man, and now, when he was slipping away from the world, she couldn’t even bring herself to feel sorry.
She’d lost her babies. Ever since that awful night, she’d been consumed by misery. She’d been abused by men all her young life. Only Joe hadn’t crossed her – but, being Joe, anything for the quiet life, he had stood idly by while Charlie and her father dealt out random smacks and more extreme punishment. He had never tried to intervene, and that hurt her. All the men she had ever known had hurt her.
But no more.
She stared at the pathetic remnants of her father and swore it. Now she was going to carve out her own path. No longer was she the quiet, gentle girl. Now she was a woman. She had suffered. And her suffering had forged a core of cold steel in her soul.
The doctor arrived, shooing her out of the way. He bent over the old man, checked his heart, while Joe and Ruby looked on.
‘I think it’s the end,’ said the doctor, drawing back, putting his stethoscope away. He looked at them both. ‘You should prepare yourself for the worst. I’m sorry.’
51
Ted Darke died that same night and was buried a week later, with no pomp or ceremony, beside his late wife Alicia. It was a simple funeral, attended by Ruby and Joe, plus a few of their father’s old church friends. Betsy came, much to Ruby’s surprise, and although she didn’t exchange one word with her former friend, she clung on to Joe’s arm throughout the ceremony and afterwards, out in the windy graveyard, she was there again, hanging on to Joe.
So that’s the way it’s going, thought Ruby.
She wasn’t surprised. Ruby wasn’t blind to Betsy’s faults. Bubbly and supposedly warm-hearted, Betsy was in fact the ultimate opportunist. With Charlie out of the picture, naturally she turned to Joe. The Darkes still had a certain air of notoriety – and Joe was in charge of what had once been Charlie’s mob now. Joe would be easier for Betsy to manage. Joe wouldn’t be unfaithful. He just wasn’t the type. And also, there was the matter of all those many thousands of pounds taken in the mail van heist, still unaccounted for. . .
Ruby managed to get through the tea and sandwiches back at the house, and was heartily glad when the last of the guests departed.
Finally, her and Joe were sitting alone at the kitchen table and night was drawing in. It seemed to her that a line had been drawn under everything. The war was over. Her babies were gone. Dad was gone. No more would they hear the broom handle banging on the wall. Their dad was dead, and Charlie had been put away for a long, long time.
‘You. Betsy,’ said Ruby curiously. ‘Is it serious, Joe?’
Joe shrugged. ‘Think so. Yeah. I know she was with Charlie, but I’m falling for her. She’s good for me.’
Ruby stared at her brother. She doubted that, but still, if it made him happy, why not?
‘You’re not a bad man, Joe.’ She sipped the whisky he’d poured them both. It was true. He was the better of the Darke brothers. And miles better than their drunken, God-bothering father had ever been.
Joe held up his glass in one meaty fist. ‘To Dad,’ he said.
Ruby clinked her glass against his. ‘Yeah.’
They both drank in the silence of the night. No more bombing raids now. No more Dad. No more Charlie. The future stretched ahead of them, a blank canvas onto which they could write whatever they wished.
‘It’s been rough on you,’ said Joe. ‘Getting caught out like that. The kids. You know.’
‘Yeah,’ sighed Ruby. Her little girl was with her father, anyway. She’d be raised as a right little princess, spoiled to bits. Her little boy . . . a friend of a friend, Charlie had told her. At least he would be safe. At least he would be with a family, not condemned as a bastard with a disgraced woman to bring him up alone and unaided.
‘Did Charlie tell you who had him? The little boy?’ she asked hesitantly.
My son. My precious, beautiful boy.
Joe shook his head. ‘No. He didn’t.’
Joe felt bad lying to her. Charlie had told him what happened to the kid. Even hard-hearted tough-as-nails Charlie had been troubled by it, and telling Joe had almost been like a confession for him. But Joe wasn’t ever going to tell that to Ruby. It would kill her, break her heart into bits. He was going to carry that grisly secret to his grave.
Ruby finished her whisky. It burned, all the way down. Seemed almost to cauterize, just for a moment, the pain that was always there in her heart. But only for a moment. Then the pain, the dull forever ache of missing her babies, was back again. She would learn to live with it. She had to.
‘What you going to do then, Rubes?’ Joe asked. ‘Go back to the Windy? I know you said you wouldn’t, but . . .’ he hesitated.
But that was just after the babies were born, and you weren’t in your right mind, Ruby finished for him.
And he was right. She’d been demented, hysterical and grief-stricken.
‘No. I won’t go back there,’ she said. What for? To stand there like some sort of object, and let men ogle her, make use of her again? No, she wouldn’t do that. It seemed to her that women were either shagged, shot or shat on, in this world. And she’d had enough of it. She wanted to make her own rules, not live by those imposed by someone else, just because they had a dick and she didn’t.
‘How about you?’ she asked Joe. But he just winked. She knew the answer anyway. He would go on with his dodgy dealings and he would probably marry Betsy. And probably, one day, he would end up in the nick – just like Charlie.
‘I might get the shop up and running again,’ said Ruby. She had been thinking of it for a couple of weeks now, and it made sense. She had the money from Cornelius; blood money for her baby girl. She sh
uddered to think of that. Felt like shit about it. But it was done. All she could do now was carry on, somehow.
Joe looked at her in surprise. ‘What, you? Run the shop?’
Ruby shrugged. Run the shop. It had a nice sound to it. She would be in charge for once. She could organize everything, just as she liked it. She was good at doing that.
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been having some thoughts about it. Why do just groceries? I think we should sell pins and needles, and tablecloths and stockings . . . and I’ve been thinking about taking over a market stall in the Portobello Road too, calling it a Penny Bazaar.’
He raised his brows, tilted his head and stared at her. ‘Yeah, why not? If it makes you happy.’
Nothing would do that. All she could do now was go on. Do her best. Fill the void, somehow. Hold herself together. What else could she do?
Now someone was banging on the front door.
Tiredly, Ruby hauled herself to her feet and went through to answer it. She found Vi standing there, all glammed up as always. Vi gave her a brilliant green-eyed smile. There was a car at the kerb, its engine running, a chauffeur behind the wheel. The car looked suspiciously like a Rolls-Royce.
‘Wondered where the hell you’d got to,’ said Vi. ‘Ready to rejoin the world yet?’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘Oh, I think so,’ said Vi. ‘War’s over, babes. It’s way past time.’
She was right.
Time for Ruby to rejoin the world. This time, on her terms.
BOOK TWO
52
1965
‘God, Joe – she’s beautiful!’
Since that awful day when her babies had been taken from her, not a minute had passed when Ruby didn’t long to hold them both. Now here she was, holding Joe and Betsy’s firstborn – her niece – and the pain of it was killing her.