All The Days of My Life

by Hilary Bailey

  But Mary, or Molly as we might as well call her now, had the secret hope that Johnnie’s vague remarks about going straight might mean something. She knew he must have a good sum, from £5,000 to £10,000, tucked away. Even if it was as low as £5,000 he could buy a small business, say a newsagent or little cafe. If it was more he could do better. But during the following few weeks her hopes were dashed. The money went out like water – a few hundred lost in a poker game here, a new fur coat for Molly there. She took the coat because she knew if she did not the bookies would get the money anyway. “I can always sell it,” she told herself. Meanwhile, they still had a good time at the races, round the clubs. They had champagne at all hours – and sex, too. There was no time when Mary did not desire the hardness of Johnnie’s body, his cock plunging so deeply inside her that she felt completely taken over by it. Susie, at the club, looked at her through the smoke one night and said, “It don’t last, you know, Moll. Don’t expect it to last.” Molly knew it would. She knew that the love, desire, romance, fulfilment she and Johnnie gave each other would never fail in their magic.

  As autumn wore on and became winter she began to realize the implications of the life she had entered with Johnnie. In early November a few of the friends she had met with him – cheerful, open-handed, friendly men, she thought them – began to call at Meakin Street. They tended to stay late. Sometimes Molly went to bed before they left. She had, after all, to get up early and look after the child. Gradually she realized that the men, Jimmy Carr, Allan Lane and Fred Jones, were in the house for a reason. They were trying to get Johnnie out on another job. By mid-November he was interested and by the end of the month committed. Molly began to find it hard to sleep, as she lay there, hearing the men’s voices downstairs, knowing that in probability once she had gone upstairs they had laid out their plans and their streetmaps on the table she had proudly polished. They would be eating the sandwiches she had prepared and left on a plate in the kitchen for them. In the morning there would be crumbs, empty glasses, ashtrays overflowing with stubs – she, Molly, was servicing this operation, which might deprive her of her lover. But she would never be allowed to know what was going on.

  She found out. On her side was the fact that Johnnie loved her, and so was incautious in his talk, that she looked over the streetmap one morning and found the faint markings they had made on it and, above all, that none of them expected her to want to know. Of the four men involved, Allan Lane was the driver and Fred Jones the looker. Jimmy Carr had fallen in love with the secretary of a solicitor who had an office next door to a small bank in West Ealing. One evening, weary of the efforts to get her to sleep with him before her parents came back from the cinema – the assault had gone on for three months as she explained she wished to be a virgin when she married and he evaded making a proposal – he got fed up and took an impression of the keys of the office, which she had in her handbag in the hall. By the time she came to see him, ready to yield herself up to him, he had lost interest and was working on the plan to rob the bank. On Christmas Day, when the takings from the shops in the area were in the vaults, he and Johnnie would let themselves in through the solicitor’s door, blow a hole in the wall on the ground floor, get into the bank, get down into the vaults and break open the safes. Fred Jones had taken a room above the chemist’s opposite the bank. From there he could look out and signal the arrival of the police, if they came. The one real danger was that the noise of the explosion when the wall was dynamited would bring them along.

  “Do it at dinnertime,” Johnnie said. “It’s the last thing anybody’s thinking about then, not with the turkey falling on the floor and the kids being sick – they’ll think the neighbours have got some noisy crackers this year.”

  “I don’t like it,” Jimmy Carr had said.

  “There hasn’t been a time when you could blow out a wall without getting heard since the Blitz,” Johnnie pointed out. “Unless you’ve got some way to getting the Wehrmacht to help us that’s what we’ve got to do.”

  “Drink to it,” said one.

  “’Luck, then,” said another.

  Johnnie Bridges quietly raised his glass.

  Not long after, they all left. Molly was awake when her lover came upstairs. When Johnnie rolled into bed she said nothing. In the end he told her, “This way I can set myself straight for good and all.”

  She knew the rules – don’t quarrel when a job is planned. You break a man’s nerve that way. Instead she said, “What’ll you do?”

  “I don’t need to make detailed plans if I’ve got twenty, twenty-five thousand in my pocket.”

  “With twenty-five thousand in your pocket you’d be broke in a year, the way you spend,” Molly told him.

  “On you, darling, on you,” Johnnie said brusquely. “Look at that coat.”

  “I don’t care about the coat or the money,” cried Molly. “It’s the danger, Johnnie –”

  “Don’t you worry about little Johnnie Bridges,” he said. “He’ll be all right, never you fear.”

  And he was asleep. Molly lay awake in the darkness. They got used to it – women pleading with them to stay out of trouble, then asking for a fur coat or new bikes for the kids or a holiday in Spain. How many women must have said, “It’s the danger, Johnnie,” and had to be content with the same devil-may-care reply? How many of them had believed it? And did it have to be like this, with her making the tea and them planning the strategy? And hadn’t he gone off her since all this began? Look at him now, snoring like a pig while she lay awake, worrying. How long was it since they’d made love together? Five days? Four? It felt like a million years, thought Molly, not daring to wake her lover with a kiss and make him desire her, just in case he told her to shut up and let him sleep.

  A fortnight before Christmas Johnnie’s tensions were worse. He and Jimmy Carr were in conflict over everything. Jimmy, who saw himself as a robber in the old style, carrying everything off by flash and bravado, complained about Johnnie’s meticulous attitude. Johnnie even made them go to the solicitor’s office early one morning to make sure the keys fitted, to check the thickness of the wall between the office and the bank and find out anything else he could. Worse than that, he put Molly in the street to look out and listen.

  “Don’t want a crowd of blokes hanging about at this hour in the morning,” he said. “Moll can just pretend she’s coming home after a dance. Dance dress – high heels – trotting alone – who’d suspect her?”

  “Oh my God – a woman. That’s all we need on this job,” groaned Jimmy. “Tell all your business to a tart and it’s the surest way to get caught. No disrespect intended, John. Molly’s a nice girl but how long could she hold up under interrogation?”

  “She won’t be under interrogation,” Johnnie told him.

  So in the end they did let themselves into the office. Molly, in a dance dress, a stole, which kept on slipping, and stiletto heels, tapped up the street. As she approached the office she pretended her heel had broken, took it off to examine it, put it on and hobbled past lamely.

  When they met in a side street further off Johnnie demanded as they got in the car, “Did you hear anything?”

  “Were you banging on the wall?” Molly asked. “I heard some thuds.”

  “Bloody hammering,” Jimmy Carr told her. “I’ve been arrested doing a job in my time but I’ve never been arrested before I done it. I thought that was going to happen this time.”

  “Better than turning up with all the gear, finding the keys don’t fit or we’d have to push six heavy filing cabinets out of the way to get to the wall, or it’s six feet thick and reinforced with steel,” Johnnie replied. “Haven’t you ever heard of reconnaissance?”

  Jimmy was about to speak but said nothing. He was showing a lot of patience with Johnnie, whose talents he could not deny but whose nerves were punishing everyone about him.

  There was another row that night when Jimmy found out that Johnnie had bought a souped-up van for the getaway. “What’s
wrong with Allan’s car?” he asked. “It goes like the clappers and he’s used to it.”

  “It’s registered in the name of his brother-in-law, that’s all that’s wrong with it,” bellowed Johnnie. “They can trace us through it if anybody gets the number.”

  He was right, of course. Jimmy stared at him as if he could kill him and said, “OK. But you’re paying for the bleeder. And I should advise you to get Allan out into the country in it for a little bit of practice before we put our lives in his hands.”

  “Do you think I hadn’t thought of that?” demanded Johnnie.

  “You’ve thought of everything, John,” Jimmy replied quietly. “But I think I’ll go home now.”

  Johnnie stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  “I’m just going home, that’s all. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  After he had gone Johnnie raged, “Steps out on me at this stage for a few days off. Nice, isn’t it? Lovely! Leaves it all to me.” He punched the sofa twice and said, “The stupid berk, what does he think he’s doing – playing cowboys and Indians?”

  Molly sat down heavily in a chair and said, “It’s the way you’re carrying on, Johnnie. They all know you’re right most of the time. Only you’re like Hitler. They can’t take it.”

  “That’s what you sound like when you’re working with kids from a kindergarten,” he said.

  Molly said, “I’ll be glad when this lot’s over, I can tell you.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much for your support,” said her lover vindictively. “I expect you’ll be glad to spend the money when I’ve got it, too.”

  “I don’t care about the bloody money,” cried Molly. “I’m fed up with having Jimmy and Fred and Allan draped round the place drinking whisky all night long. I’m responsible for the place. I’m trying to bring up a kid and all I’ve got is all these men sitting about – no one ever thinks to offer to carry a scuttle of coal for the fire. And your nerves are in a state –”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my nerves,” Johnnie said.

  “Johnnie – you twitch all night and toss, and throw yourself about.”

  “You shut your mouth,” said Johnnie Bridges. “And remember how you sleep is according to who you sleep with.”

  Molly stood up and told him, “This is still my place and I’ll say what I like in it.”

  “Oh, you bitch,” shouted Johnnie. “I need peace and quiet and some support. Not your constant nagging.”

  “You’ve had all the support you’ll get from me,” cried Molly. “Now go away and leave me alone. What good are you anyway? You’ll be in the nick by the New Year.”

  “Don’t you say that to me,” roared Johnnie. He got off the sofa, took two swift paces across the room and hit her, with all his force, flat across the cheek.

  Mary staggered and not even feeling any pain, shouted, “Get out, Johnnie, or I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, I swear it!” Then she fell down in a chair and, with her hand across her aching, stinging face, began to sob. She heard him walk out of the room, go upstairs and start banging about collecting his things. “He’ll wake the baby,” she thought in agony. He came down. Even then she thought he might come in and say he was sorry he had hurt her. But he did not. The child began to cry. The door banged. Mary cried. Then she went wearily upstairs, bent as an old woman, still weeping. Wiping the back of her hand across her eyes she went into the child’s room, sniffing, and tried to soothe her back to sleep. In the end she took her into her own room and lay across the bed, holding her weakly and trying not to look at the open drawers, the scatter of her shoes on the floor at the front of the wardrobe and the bedroom door, gaping open.

  Josephine slept. Mary held on to her to make sure she was properly sleeping and muttered, in a choking voice, “Just before Christmas, too. Just before Christmas.” And she cried again. She felt guilty, too. The threat that he would get caught and go to jail had been like a witch’s curse to him. She knew that. He and his kind were like primitives – in awe of female power, dreading its increase over them, just because it was so strong. And now, since she knew everything, he would do the job not knowing if she had been to the police.

  And at the same time she knew that the love affair was over. There was no point in continuing anything once the man had laid violent hands on you. It never got any better after that, only worse. You wound up continually bashed about, wearing a black eye at the corner shop, doing your housework in pain, with your ribs strapped up – if he let you go to the hospital in the first place. You told lies about your injuries which people soon stopped believing. If you were married and had children you might not be able to get away. Even if you had a family, and they would take you in – and sometimes they would not – who would keep you? You had to stay and watch your kids getting more and more afraid of their father, who usually started on them when he had finished with you. You could only survive by getting more and more numb, to kill the misery, like someone serving a long gaol sentence. You could get killed, too. Molly knew all this. She got up and put Josephine back in her cot and lay down again, completely helpless, moaning, “It’s over. It’s over. It’s all over.” She did not sleep at all that night.

  And in the morning Ivy came round and asked if she could take Josephine for a walk.

  “You got a bruise on your face,” she remarked.

  “Fell down the stairs. Lucky not to drop the baby,” Mary said shortly. It was a ritual. Ivy knew quite well what had happened. Mary indicated that she did not want to talk about it. Ivy, uncharacteristically, perhaps, did not insist. She said, “I’ll get you some of that white make-up for erasing lines on your face when I go past the chemist.”

  Mary said, “Thanks, Ivy.”

  In the hall Ivy, as she loaded Josephine in to the pram, said, “Oh – I forgot. Here’s the usual card from Framlingham. Well, this time it’s a letter.”

  “I hope nothing’s happened to Mrs Gates,” Molly said dully. The memory of what had happened the day before kept sweeping over her like a huge wave.

  “I hope not,” said Ivy. “Here – open it up straight away.”

  Mary read it out. “‘Dear Mary, It was only recently that we pieced together the story and realized that you had been in great trouble and were now a mother as well. You must think us very stupid for writing so late after the terrible tragedy you have experienced. We simply did not realize that you were now Mary Flanders – but we’re so sorry about your problems and, in short, I am writing to ask if you would like to come and spend Christmas with us here. It would be lovely to see you again and Mrs Gates is dying to see your new daughter. It will be a quiet Christmas as Sir Frederick has not been particularly well but Tom has managed to get a fortnight’s leave from his regiment, which is, alas, on active service in Cyprus and so he will be with us. I’m sure you remember him as a boy’ – how could I ever forget?” muttered Mary, “‘so you will be amazed to hear that he now sports a large moustache. I am so sorry to be inviting you rather late but do come if you can – Mrs Gates is waiting eagerly by my side so that she can speed this letter to the post. Even if you can’t, do drop us a line very soon to tell us all how you are getting on. With all my love,’” Mary read out in astonishment, “‘Isabel Allaun.’ Wonder what brought that on?”

  “Like she said,” Ivy offered, “they put two and two together somehow and worked out you were Mary Flanders. Then they felt worried about how you were. It’s normal even from them. And Mrs Gates must have badgered them.”

  “Probably hoping I’ll help her out in the kitchen,” muttered Mary.

  “Why not,” demanded Ivy. “You could do with some country air and so could Josephine. It’s kind of them to ask you and I think you should accept. Write off now. I’ll post it.”

  In the end Mary wrote two letters. The first said that she would be pleased to bring Josephine to Framlingham at Christmas. The second, to Johnnie, took her longer. “Dear Johnnie,” she wrote. “I’m sorry it had to end th
is way. I can’t forgive you for what you did but I hope time will heal all wounds,” and here she sniffed, and sobbed again. “I’m wishing you the best of luck,” she continued, “and I promise you I will never do anything to hurt or injure you.” She dared not be more open in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. She was sure he would understand that she did not intend to betray him to the police. She paused, still crying aloud now, and wrote, in a shaky hand, “I will never forget you, Johnnie. Thanks for the good times so let’s forget the bad. Yours Mary.” Then she addressed the letter to Johnnie’s parents’ house. She posted both letters immediately and then went back into the empty house. It felt like a void.

  During the next week she miserably, and automatically, prepared herself and the baby for their stay in Framlingham, buying new shoes for Josephine and new nightdresses for herself. She also, doing those things, realized that she should be thinking about money. But, since she cared about nothing now that Johnnie was gone, she did not worry about her finances either. “I’d sooner be dead,” she said to herself as she packed. But Ivy, watching her put her clothes carefully into her case, rejoiced. Mary was strong, she thought. One way or another she was getting her luggage packed and into a train. Bridges was gone – so much the better – but her daughter had weathered out the death of her husband, and her confinement, and now the departure of her lover and she was still, however shakily, on her feet. She was strong, thought Ivy, and thank God, because she’d need to be. Mary, catching her mother’s approving glance, could not understand what was going through Ivy’s head. A week and a half after Johnnie had departed, she was on the train to Framlingham.

  So at last I saw Mary Waterhouse. By chance, because I was spending that Christmas with the family of my closest friend at Cambridge, Sebastian Hodges, who knew the Allauns well. He had been the only boy in the neighbourhood whom the Allauns thought suitable to associate with their son, Tom, so he was often hauled over to the Towers, although, as he said, he was not only two years younger than Tom Allaun and had plenty of friends of his own among the local boys, but hated spending the day with Tom because he loathed him. He hated Tom’s cousin Charlie even more and said that when they were together the two of them bullied and tormented him so badly – often, it seems, in the notorious Allaun shrubbery – that he used to have nightmares about it.