by Jessie Keane
Never in Tito’s club, though. He’d been caught once and he was still paying the price for that. Now he took Sebastian to discreet out-of-the-way places and they made love there. Afterwards he would buy the boy gifts. An Asprey wallet. A gold money-clip. Tiffany cufflinks and matching tiepins. Anything he wanted, he could have. And Sebastian wanted a lot. He knew his value, down to the last penny, and he was as skilled in bed as any Japanese geisha.
61
1965
The Darkes department store chain was growing strongly and that at least gave Ruby some satisfaction. She had invested the money Cornelius had paid for her little girl wisely. She had expanded her father’s shop to a massive extent. She had acquired bombed-out premises near Marble Arch, Edgware Road and Oxford Street at knockdown prices, rebuilt, then ploughed all the profits she made straight back into the company.
Ruby had forced herself to live for her business. Every small thing about it had been a matter of great importance to her. She often stood in her stores, watching the customers, noting whether they turned left or right, what drew them, what pushed them away. She was always out on the floor, questioning the managers about stock levels, sales performance and new lines – because she had nothing else in her life, nothing at all. There was still food on sale, in separate food halls, but the clothes and the furnishings were the big sellers now. Post-war, people had just been grateful to be alive. But now it was the ‘Swinging’ Sixties. Now, they wanted to forget austerity, to celebrate. To live the dream.
‘What we’re selling now is a lifestyle,’ she told her accountant. ‘Not just the right clothes, but the right teacup, the right suitcase and bed linen, the right style.’
‘You’re expanding too fast,’ he told her gloomily, blinking through his thick black-rimmed glasses at the figures.
Ruby looked at him kindly. Her thin, myopic, grey-haired accountant Joseph Fuller would always be an overly cautious man. He had guided her well so far. However, she was not such a fool as to let an accountant run her business for her. Her years in retail had given her confidence in her own sound judgement.
‘Joseph, I told you: one year’s for growth, the next is for consolidation. That’s not fast, that’s sensible.’
‘Manufacturing costs are sky-high. The wholesalers keep pushing the prices up, and what can we do? They’ve got a captive market.’
Ruby knew this all too well. The latest price hike had sent her raging around the office for days. Finally, she’d sat down, Jane her secretary had brought her a cup of tea, and she had worked out what to do. It was, admittedly, a desperate plan. But she had to do something, or the wholesale bastards would be fleecing her until her dying day.
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ she told Joseph.
‘Oh?’
‘I think we should cut out the middle man,’ said Ruby.
‘Cut out the wholesalers?’ He stared at her as if she’d gone mad. ‘Ruby. Be careful. You’ll be blacklisted.’
To be blacklisted by the Wholesale Textile Association was no small thing. Ruby knew it. But it seemed to her that the wholesalers had had it all their own way for far too long.
‘I’ve been talking to the Cohen brothers in Leicester.’ Ruby had been up to their factory three times, wining and dining the manufacturers and their wives. ‘They’ve accepted an order – a direct order – for two thousand dozen men’s Y-fronts and string vests.’
Joseph was pale with shock. ‘They must be suicidal.’
‘On the contrary, they’ll do well out of the deal.’
‘It’s crazy.’
But the two thousand dozen men’s underwear order sold out in no time. The Cohens – urged on by Ruby – had taken a big risk, but it had paid off. Encouraged by this success, the Cohen brothers continued to defy the WTA and threw in their lot with Ruby.
‘Don’t gloat,’ said Joseph, months later.
‘Can’t help it,’ said Ruby, showing him the new Darkes label on every garment out on the shop floor.
Now she had her own manufacturing base, and no wholesalers to divvy up with.
‘We give the Cohens mass-production orders, they give us rock-bottom prices, we can pass some of those savings on to customers. Everyone’s a winner.’
62
Ruby met with her old friend Vi for tea and cakes at a Lyons Corner House.
‘You’re working too hard,’ said Vi, sweeping majestically in. Vi hadn’t changed. Despite the fact that she could have afforded a bucketload of Chanel now, she still stuck to her favourite scent, which followed her everywhere like a fragrant ghost – Devon Violets. She still had her helmet of auburn-dyed hair, her cupid’s-bow mouth slashed with scarlet, her artfully blackened eyes. She was forty now, but remained an exceedingly handsome woman.
‘I like working too hard,’ said Ruby. She was proud of all that she had achieved. From a single corner shop, she had expanded Darkes over the years until she now had fifteen department stores, countrywide.
‘Yes, because you have absolutely nothing else in your life. You don’t even have a lover.’
Not having a lover was something Vi saw as a disaster. She was now married to one of those eager stage-door johnnies who had applauded her at the Windmill, a nephew of Lord Albemarle who had no sons to inherit. As a happy consequence of her judicious marriage and Lord Albemarle’s death, Vi was now loaded.
But while dear boring old Anthony languished in the Oxfordshire countryside tending his thousand-acre estate, Vi loved to come to town and meet up with one or other of the young men who kept her ‘company’ on these visits.
‘I don’t want a lover,’ said Ruby with absolute truthfulness. ‘What would a man do for me? Try to dominate me? Tell me what to do?’
Vi rolled her beautiful eyes. ‘Darling, you don’t actually have to listen to him. Just enjoy his company.’
Ruby smiled. ‘And then what? Kick him out of bed?’
‘Absolutely.’
Every time they met up, Vi went on about this. For years it had been the same. Now Ruby just changed the subject. Vi was a good friend – the best – but God could she go on. Ruby thought of Cornelius, the only man she had ever loved, and how disastrously wrong it had all gone for her after that. She despised him now. No, she certainly didn’t want another man in her life.
‘Ask me how the business is going,’ she said, brushing aside these troubling thoughts as their tea and cakes arrived.
‘No,’ said Vi. ‘I won’t. You’ve buried yourself in that bloody job of yours because it stops you thinking about your kids. Admit it.’
Ruby’s jaw tightened. ‘Shut up, Vi.’
She knew Vi was right. And now . . . now she was going to do something about that. But she didn’t want to discuss it. Not yet. Soon, she promised herself, she was going to do it: make herself known to Daisy. She’d already hit an obstacle on her son, though, because Charlie was refusing to send her a visiting order, the bastard. Joe was pushing him over it, but so far – no result.
‘The truth hurt?’
‘I said shut up.’
It did hurt. And it was true.
‘All right.’ Vi sighed heavily. Business to Vi was a bore. It was for men to worry about making money; she just spent it. ‘How is the business going?’
‘Splendid. And without a man,’ said Ruby, ‘I’m sole owner. All my work is for my own benefit.’
‘Sounds a bit lonely to me.’
‘Well, it isn’t,’ lied Ruby, buttering a scone. It was. She was lonely. She wanted her life back, her lost life. Fuck it – she wanted her kids.
63
1967
Daisy was having a whale of a time. She was shopping, meeting up with friends, and giving her careless Aunt Ju the slip as often as she possibly could. She had never had so much fun in all her life; being away from her cold and repressive mother cheered her up in a way she could never have believed possible.
‘I love London,’ she moaned, swooping in and out of the shops in Carnaby Street, lingeri
ng over Quant and Biba as if they were mouth-watering treats to be devoured.
Not that Daisy allowed herself many edible treats. She was wishing she was thinner, daintier. Twiggy was the ideal these days – every girl she knew wanted to look big-eyed and waiflike – but Daisy had these damned curves. Then up ahead she saw a rather short, powerfully built young man with dark-red hair.
‘Jesus!’ she yelped, falling off her white patent heels in surprise.
‘What?’ Mandy, her friend, clutched at her in alarm. ‘What’s up?’
It was Simon Collins. She felt her heart give a treacherous lurch at the sight of him. She had half-believed herself to be in love with him after that night four years ago, and had longed for the sight of him. She had seen herself as some tragic figure, a thwarted Juliet parted from her Romeo. Her period had reassured her that there was going to be no pregnancy, but still she had nurtured this fabulous crush on him. Her first man, ever. That was something special, surely? And now here he was, walking towards her.
‘Simon!’ she burst out, beaming.
She hurried towards him. And saw him recoil at the sight of her. It was then that she noticed he was with a slender young woman with long straight mousy-brown hair. Both Simon and the young woman were staring at her as if she had landed in a spaceship.
‘It’s me,’ she said, aware that her voice sounded gushy, but unable to stop it somehow. Her loose top plummeted from her shoulder, exposing her bra strap. She scooped it back up, embarrassed. ‘Daisy Bray. The Dorchester. Remember? My deb’s dance?’
‘Oh!Yes.’ Simon’s face was brick-red, as if fearing she was about to say something shocking.
Like what? wondered Daisy. Hi, I’m the virgin you fucked in that fancy hotel room?
In irritation she stared at him, waiting for him to respond, to say something. I’ve missed you. I’m sorry. Piss off. Anything.
‘This is my fiancée, Clarissa,’ he said instead. ‘Clarissa, darling, this is Daisy – Lord Bray’s daughter.’
The girl nodded, watching Daisy as if she might bite. Daisy, however, was watching Simon. What had she been thinking? It was true. Aunt Ju had been right all along. He was extremely short. He wasn’t that handsome. Now she could see that it had all been an illusion, brought about by that magical night, that first night of adult freedom. She had drunk far too much and fallen into bed with a completely unsuitable man. No wonder her mother was furious with her.
‘Well . . . nice to see you again,’ said Daisy lamely, and Simon and Clarissa moved on along the crowded pavement.
Daisy stood there, appalled at her own stupidity.
‘Who the hell was that?’ asked Mandy as they linked arms and strolled on. ‘That funny little man, he blushed like a girl when he saw you.’
‘Nobody,’ said Daisy. And it was true. The day seemed blighted somehow. She’d made a fool of herself. Flung herself at life again, been careless. She could see it now, so clearly. She felt hotly embarrassed to think that she’d actually let that creep have her.
‘Tom’s throwing a party tonight at his place,’ said Mandy, forgetting all about Simon in an instant. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Of course,’ said Daisy, pushing Simon from her mind. She was going to Tom’s party tonight, and she was going to forget all about Simon, and her deb’s dance, and the drunken humiliation of her night at the Dorchester. She was going to forget it if it killed her.
64
Tom’s place was heaving with bodies writhing along to ‘Paint It Black’ by the Stones. He had a projector lined up on a blank wall, throwing multicoloured psychedelic images in a twirling, whirling mass that Daisy tried not to stare at because it made her feel giddy.
She couldn’t speak to anyone, the music was too loud. As soon as she and Mandy came in the door, Mandy peeled off and was lost to sight. Daisy stood there alone, until Tom came by and pushed a bottle of beer into her hand. She drank it cautiously. She didn’t want to see some other callow youth as handsome as Hercules, through beer goggles.
‘We won it, isn’t that fab?’ shouted Tom in her ear.
‘Won what?’ asked Daisy, puzzled.
‘Won what?’ He laughed out loud. ‘The fucking World Cup, that’s what. We beat Germany 4–2. Isn’t it great?’
‘Oh. Yes. Terrific.’ Daisy had absolutely no interest in football.
‘You’re pretty,’ he shouted.
Daisy looked at him. She didn’t have much interest in him, either. This was no Hercules. Tom was lanky, badly dressed, and he had wisps of beard clinging to his soft girly chin. So he thought she was pretty. What was she supposed to reply to that? Well, you’re not! sprang to mind, but she had been raised to have impeccable manners; she couldn’t shake the habits of her upbringing. She shrugged, smiled, and sipped the beer, which was warm and ghastly.
‘Dance?’ he yelled.
Daisy shook her head.
‘Come on!’
Damn it.
They writhed about among the other heaving bodies, and Daisy kept having to slither away from Tom’s groping hands. Finally, she’d had enough. She muttered an excuse to him and fought her way to the hall. She couldn’t see Mandy anywhere. The Beach Boys were pounding out ‘Good Vibrations’ now. There was a weird smell in the air; she knew it was drugs.
She pushed her way up the staircase past snogging couples and started looking in the bedrooms. Pretty soon, she wished she hadn’t. It looked as though an orgy was in progress. Mandy could have been one of the writhing shapes in any of the beds, but she couldn’t be sure. And the music was too deafening for her to be heard, even when she shouted Mandy’s name.
‘Hi,’ yelled a looming male shape in stonewash jeans and a LOVE T-shirt. His breath stank of cigarette smoke. ‘You want to . . .’ He indicated a bedroom.
‘No,’ said Daisy. The scene at the Dorchester sprang into her mind, the sheer humiliation of being caught in the act. It made her tremble to even think about it.
‘Come on,’ he said, catching hold of her arm.
‘I said no.’ Daisy yanked free and hurtled down the stairs. She pulled open the front door and ran out onto the path, inhaling clean night air. She went out into the road, and there was a taxi, the blessed yellow light glowing in the darkness. She summoned it, got inside, and went home to Aunt Ju’s.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ asked Mandy next day when they met up, her eyes bloodshot and bleary behind big sunglasses.
‘I was tired. Wanted to go home,’ said Daisy.
But home wasn’t Aunt Ju’s. Home was Brayfield, which now she missed with an ache that was almost physical. These days, she was too embarrassed by her own behaviour to risk a visit. She felt displaced, disgraced. Nevertheless, she tried to be happy with her lot, she really did; she’d settled into London life, which seemed to be one mad continuous whirl of parties, shopping and generally not giving a damn. She’d even passed her driving test and Dad had promised her a Mini.
‘Ally Pally soon,’ Mandy told her with a grin.
‘What’s that?’
‘The Fourteen-hour Technicolour Dream,’ said Mandy. ‘Pink Floyd are playing.’
‘Aunt Ju will never let me go.’ Aunt Ju behaved more like a slipshod gaoler than a true auntie – no doubt under strict instructions from Vanessa.
‘Idiot, don’t tell her you’re going. Tell her we’re visiting my folks in Cambridgeshire.’
‘Do they actually live there?’
‘Of course not.’
‘She might check.’ Daisy didn’t think Aunt Ju would. Aunt Ju was more concerned with her own busy life than with supervising her niece’s.
‘Don’t tell her until the day before. Then once we’re gone, it’s too late.’
Daisy felt a thrill of fearful expectation at that. She loved kicking over the traces, almost as much as she dreaded reprisals when the fun was over. Behaving badly brought attention – and any attention was better than her usual quota, which was none.
65
1967
‘Thanks, boss.’
That meant a lot to Kit. He respected Mr Ward. Looked up to him. Mr Ward was a mean, hard bastard, but he was also straight as a die. All his boys had a lot of time for him. He looked after them. He was looking after Kit very well indeed. Kit had a brand-new motor now to drive around in. A penthouse flat had been organized. He had pussy on tap, and he was making a real name for himself around the manor.
‘Reggie says you’re a good boy, a thinker.’ Mr Ward’s granite-grey eyes crinkled at the corners as he blew out a plume of smoke from his cigar. ‘That’s a rarity, son. And the boys like you.’
Kit was proud to hear that. The boys were hard nuts but they had quickly taken him into the fold. At first he knew he’d been too impulsive. There had been a ruck or two with other youngsters who saw him as a threat to their own positions, but he had quickly sorted those out. Now he’d outgrown the need to run full-pelt into silly situations. He found the Ward organization provided him with something he had never had before – that feeling of being part of a family, accepted and watched over. He liked it.
‘You heard about Reggie?’ asked Michael Ward, tapping ash from the Cohiba he was smoking. He watched Kit closely.
Kit nodded. There had been a rumour that Reggie, the big white-haired geezer who had been Mr Ward’s number one man, was retiring from the game due to ill health. Kit knew Reggie had a hernia, an old sports injury from his younger days in the boxing ring, that played him up. More and more he had been leaving the strong-arm stuff to Kit and to others.
‘He’s dropping out,’ said Mr Ward. ‘You want to take over, head up the breakers?’
Kit couldn’t believe it. His face split into a wide grin.
‘That a yes?’ asked Mr Ward.