All The Days of My Life

by Hilary Bailey

  Steven Greene sat by the flaring gas fire and said nothing. “Come on, Steven,” she said, “take the money and go to Morocco or something. Have a break and get them worried. You’re acting like a girl who’s been given the chuck – sitting around hoping they’ll see their mistake and come back to you. Why don’t you disappear and give them a run for their money?”

  “I feel too – disappointed,” he told her.

  “Well – don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said. “But I think you could be in trouble, soon. You know too much.” Then she said, “Anyway – here’s the big news. Johnnie and me are getting married.”

  At this he said, “Why are you looking so miserable, then?”

  “Miserable?” she said. “I’m not miserable. It’s you that’s miserable. Aren’t you going to say ‘congratulations’ or something?”

  Steven shook his head. He said, “I’m broke, I’ve been deserted by my friends and I can’t see my way out so I deserve one luxury – saying what I think. And that is that you’re not happy and quite right too, because Johnnie’s no good – sorry, Moll, but I’ve got to say it.”

  Molly shrugged uncomfortably. “Better not talk about it then – but it’s going to happen, so make up your mind to it.”

  “What’s he doing now?” asked Steven.

  “Johnnie? He’s working for Ferenc Nedermann.”

  “What as?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “Why don’t you find out,” Steven said. “Go and see what he does. A wife should take an interest.”

  “All right,” Molly said. “I will.” She knew the suggestion meant that she would not like what she saw.

  Suddenly it was as if the fog and the silence outside and the cramped atmosphere of the little flat had exhausted them. Molly asked, “Is there anything to drink here?”

  “Not till Wendy gets back,” he told her. “Times are hard.”

  “I’ll go,” she said.

  When she came back with a bottle of whisky and some cheese and ham he opened the door and stared at her like a man who has had a bad shock. She stepped in, saying, “I’ll make you a sandwich,” then, struck by the atmosphere, “What’s happened?”

  “They’re charging me with living on immoral earnings,” he told her.

  “Oh, God,” she cried, putting her bag on the floor. “Oh – no. How do you know?”

  “A friend in the police just phoned and told me,” he said. “How could they?”

  “You’ve still got time to get out,” Molly said. “They can’t charge you if you’re not here, can they?”

  “Yes, they can,” he said. “I’ll just have to face it when I get back.”

  “They warned you so you’d leave,” she told him. “Go to New York and don’t come back. You can get a living anywhere – you might go down well in the States.”

  “No time to get a visa,” he replied.

  “Look,” she said. “There’s been a decision. Some of your former posh mates want to get rid of you, still. The others have decided they want to punish you – get you discredited – turn you into a criminal. That’s what this is all about. You want to get to the first lot. They could get you a visa to the moon in four hours.”

  “You’re talking nonsense,” he said.

  “Oh, God, Steven,” Mary cried. “You’ve lived among these people. You know all about them. You fixed their orgies. Didn’t you ever see them pull a string or two? I don’t know where your brains are.”

  “Better think about your own skin, Molly my dear,” was his reply. “If they want to prove I’m a ponce you’ll be called to give evidence.”

  “Glad to do so,” Molly said stoutly. “I’ll tell them everything.” She wailed, “Oh God, Steven, why don’t you get out?”

  “I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of – I’m not guilty,” he said. “I wish I had a quid for every pound I’ve handed over to Wendy Valentine, for a start. She gave my TV to her mother and father.”

  “As if all that matters,” Molly said impatiently. “They’ll make it stick, Steven, no matter what you do or say.”

  He sat down suddenly and said, again, “How could they?”

  Molly went into the kitchen and made some sandwiches. All she could see, as she angrily tore holes in the new bread while trying to spread butter on it, was that Steven Greene hoped to rely on the truth to prove his innocence. And, now hacking at the cheese, she muttered, “As if that ever made any difference in court.” Over the whisky and slab-like sandwiches she told him, “Sid said never go to court. He said do anything, say anything, pay anything but never go to court because from the moment you step through the door you start losing.”

  “Molly,” he told her patiently, “I’m innocent. A fair trial will still prove an innocent man is innocent.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Molly said. “But Sid says the most innocent thing in the world can look guilty in court.”

  “Well, it’s lovely sitting here and listening to your father’s opinions about the law,” Steven said.

  “Phone your solicitor,” Molly said firmly. “Do it now.”

  Steven looked at her and said, “You know, one of these days you’re going to turn into a firm-minded woman.”

  “Be sooner than that, if I have to go on dealing with people like you. You feel betrayed, don’t you? You feel let down by friends and now they’ve put the law on you? And you still can’t believe it’s true. You still think it’s a bad dream and you’ll wake up and it’ll have gone away. Don’t let it happen to you, Steven. Do something or you’re for the chop.”

  “Better go home, Molly, and work out your own story,” he told her.

  Molly said wearily, “All right. But I’ll be back.” They ate their sandwiches sitting side by side on the sofa, with their arms round each other’s shoulders. After her brief honeymoon she felt very tired again, as she had before.

  When she got back to the flat she found Johnnie there. She told him about the coming charge of living on immoral earnings. He said only, “Pack it up, love. I’m worn out with all this. Steven Greene’s been walking on the edge for years. Now it’s caught up with him and I can’t be expected to cry in my tea about that. I’ve got problems of my own.” And Molly sighed and went into the kitchen to get the dinner.

  The next day she found out that Steven had been charged. Being unfamiliar with legal processes she went to West End Central police station, which had executed the warrant, and asked the desk officer to go and find a detective.

  “In connection with what, miss?” said the policeman, intrigued by a beautiful girl with a cockney accent, standing there in a fur coat, demanding a detective. It was yet another day when the fog was creeping into buildings and swirling in rooms. If she had been connected with criminals, he thought, she would have known better than to set about her business in that way. If she was not, how did she come to be so well dressed and self-assured? Most working-class people were more hesitant in their dealings with the police.

  Molly said to him, “It’s in connection with Steven Greene.”

  The policeman looked at her and understood. There were already stories circulating about the high-class orgies arranged by Greene. Wendy Valentine’s black lover had been arrested on a drugs’ charge but had disappeared before standing trial. Foreign newspapers were mentioning the names of Cabinet ministers and senior members of the clergy who were supposed to have been involved. The British newspapers kept silent but the buzz of gossip was everywhere. And so, “One of Greene’s tarts – an amateur,” thought the policeman. He went off and fetched a man in plain clothes, who took her into an office and said that a senior officer would soon be coming. For five minutes he tapped his fingers on the desk and looked at her from time to time. Molly said, “I want to make a statement.”

  “Well – that might be possible,” was all he said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

  Finally a detective inspector in uniform arrived. Molly said, “My name’s Molly Flanders and a friend
of mine, Steven Greene, is in trouble. I want to make a statement to help him.”

  The detective inspector said, “Well – are you sure a young woman like yourself wants to get involved in what might turn out to be a rather unsavoury case? I have to say this to you, in your own interest.”

  Molly was bewildered by his apparent lack of concern. She said, “I used to live with him – I was his tenant. I know what went on. He never took any money off women – half the time they were taking it off him. It seems to me I could help him by saying what went on.”

  “Do you know what it’s like to stand in the witness box, Mrs Flanders, and have the prosecution badgering you with questions to try and break down your story? It’s not very pleasant. And nearly all of us have got little secrets we’d like to hide. There’s no hiding anything in court.” He looked at her paternally. Molly burst out, “There’s nothing I want to hide. If things about me come out in court that’s all right. Why do you want me to keep quiet?”

  “Mrs Flanders,” said the policeman reproachfully, “we don’t want you to keep quiet. If you’ve got anything to say to help your friend, then you go ahead and say it. I’m just warning you – they’ll ask questions about your past. And they’ll make a point of asking why you, a good-looking young woman, married, by the sound of it, decided to go and live in a flat with Mr Greene. It’s a bit unusual isn’t it – sharing a flat with a man? They may dwell on that a bit in court.”

  “I didn’t live there all the time,” Molly said. “I just stayed there some days because I worked late in the club below.”

  “Don’t work there any more, then?” asked the policeman. He was a big, thickset man, too big, it seemed, for his own uniform. The large silver buttons on his jacket bulged.

  “No. I don’t work there any more,” replied Molly.

  “Any particular reason? Quarrelled with the boss?” enquired the detective inspector.

  “I did, as a matter of fact,” replied Molly, now on the defensive. “But that’s got nothing to do with why I’m here.” She began to think the policeman knew everything – that she had slept with Steven Greene, all about Lord Clover, Christopher Wylie and the way her husband had died. “I’m here to speak up for a friend, that’s all,” she said.

  There was a silence. Then the policeman leaned over the desk, his big hands folded and his eyes sympathetic. “Mrs Flanders,” he said, “we all appreciate your motives in coming and I respect them. You want to help. But I’d like to do you a favour – nothing easier than for me to take down what you say, get you in court and let you deal with all the nasty insinuations the prosecution throws at you, all the publicity – what are your parents going to think about all this when the neighbours read about it in the papers? Like I say, nothing easier than for me to go right ahead and drag you into all that. But instead, because you’re a young woman and I’d like to give you a chance to think it over, I’m going to suggest you go home and talk it over with somebody – your husband, your mum and dad, somebody like that. Then, if you haven’t changed your mind, come back here and we’ll take down what you have to say.”

  Molly, suddenly imagining Sid’s reaction when he read about her and saw her photograph in the News of the World, was almost tempted to comply. The policeman had frightened her. But she drew a deep breath and said, “Thanks. I appreciate the thought. But I’d rather do it now.” The policeman’s kindly expression changed. He stood up. “All right,” he said. “If that’s what you want to do – I’ll hand this one over to you, George.” He left the room and the plain-clothes man sat down behind the desk.

  “All right,” he said wearily. “Fire away, Mrs Flanders. Let’s hear all about it. Give me the date when you first took up residence in Mr Greene’s flat.”

  And so Molly told her story, interrupted by the other officer when he wanted dates and further details. He took it down slowly in longhand. At the end he read it over to her. It sounded, even to Molly’s inexperienced ears, flat and unconvincing. All she seemed to have done was deny that Steven Greene had ever taken any money from women. As she signed it she said anxiously, “You’ll come to me if you want to know anything else, won’t you?”

  “We’ll be in touch,” was all he said in reply. “You may be called to give evidence.”

  Later that day Steven Greene, lolling, rather drunk, in a chair by the gas fire at his flat told her, “They didn’t want you, Moll. They tried to warn you off with their you-don’t-want-any-nasty-publicity-a-nice-girl-like-you routine. I wonder if that statement you made will ever reach their files. It could go in the wastepaper basket tomorrow.”

  “Oh – I don’t think so,” Molly said.

  “Don’t think so?” said Wendy Valentine, who was lying on the sofa with a glass of whisky. She wore a silk dressing-gown which sometimes lapped open to show her slip, stockings and suspenders. The room was looking untidy. There were a lot of newspapers about. Wendy said, “I’m telling you, Moll, I was walking down Gerrard Street this morning minding my own business when a police car drew up beside me and they asked me to step in. I was at West End Central for two hours, answering questions. And half of them about Steven. They’re collecting evidence.”

  “The evidence to convict me,” Steven added.

  Wendy looked across sharply at Molly. “Have you got someone influential on your side?” she demanded.

  “What do you mean?” Molly demanded.

  “Because I think you’re being protected,” Wendy said.

  Molly thought about the idea. Then she shook her head. “Who’d look after me?” she asked.

  “Clover,” said Wendy. “Or the Roses.”

  Molly shrugged. “They can’t stop me from giving evidence if I want to,” she said.

  “They’ll offer you money,” said Steven. “Take it if you like. I won’t hold it against you.”

  “I don’t need money,” Molly said.

  “No, but Johnnie does,” said Wendy Valentine quietly. The phone rang and Steven answered it. He came back and sat down. “Johnnie,” he told Molly. “He wondered where you were – says to come back quickly.”

  “In a minute,” Molly said.

  “He didn’t sound very pleased,” warned Steven.

  Molly was tired. She roused herself from her chair and went home. There was a row. Johnnie told her to leave Steven Greene and his troubles alone. Molly refused. Johnnie shouted. Molly wept. Johnnie threw a vase at the mirror and broke both. A middle-aged man came from downstairs and complained about the noise. That night Molly lay beside her lover anxiously wondering what had gone wrong.

  The next day she stood beside Johnnie in a glass-scattered street in North Kensington. She looked up at the five-storey terraced house. Plaster on the portico had come off in large lumps. The window frames were unpainted, the front door peeling. Curtains were drawn or tacked over some of the windows. Old, limp net curtains hung at others. One of the panes was cracked and the line of the crack had been mended with sticky tape. Beyond the broken iron railings, on the trodden earth of the small front garden a dog nosed through the contents – papers, tins, scattered tea leaves – of an overturned dustbin. Up the cracked front steps Johnnie was hammering on the front door with his fists. “Mr Pilsutski!” he was calling. “Mr Pilsutski! It’s Mr Bridges.” Molly walked up to join him, hoping that there would be no answer, that they could go away. “Stupid bugger,” Johnnie said, turning to her, “I sent him a postcard saying I was coming.” Inside the house a baby cried. Johnnie started hammering and calling again. Then there were slow footsteps and the door was opened a little. A black woman in an apron stood there. She opened the door wider. Through an open door to the left the heads of four black children appeared at different heights.

  “Yes?” said the woman. “Who you want? Pilsutski?”

  “That’s right,” said Johnnie.

  The woman looked contemptuous. “Downstairs – the basement,” she said. Molly, in the meanwhile, looked up and saw an elderly, grey-haired woman coming slowly down the s
tairs, holding on to the banister.

  “Downstairs – thanks,” Johnnie said to the black woman and led the way along the passageway to a small door on the left, under the stairs. As he banged on it and went in Molly heard the old woman say, “Mrs Higgins – my sister is ill. The children are being very noisy. Do you think –”

  “This way,” Johnnie said brusquely to Molly and went down the stairs inside the small door. Upstairs, Molly could hear the black woman shouting.

  At the bottom of the stairs an old man in carpet slippers stood on the worn linoleum. “Mr Nader’s friend,” Johnnie said loudly. “I sent you a postcard.”

  “Mr Nader?” the man replied, in a strongly accented English.

  “Not Mr Nader,” Johnnie said, in the same loud voice. “I’m Mr Bridges. Mr Nader’s associate. Can I come inside? We don’t want the whole house to hear, do we?”

  This seemed to produce a response. “Ah,” said the man. “No – no. In private. In private. Come this way.”

  Opening a door he led them into a small, tidy room containing a three-piece suite and a table covered with a very white lace cloth. On one wall there was a crucifix and underneath another, smaller table, also covered with a white cloth. A fat, middle-aged woman came in.

  “Sit down. Sit down, please,” said the man. “Maria – make some coffee.” She went out.

  “My fiancee,” said Johnnie, waving at Molly. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing her along, Mr Pilsutski.”

  They sat down. Peering at Molly, Pilsutski said, “How could anyone mind such a pretty face? So you are to be married?”

  “That’s right,” said Johnnie. “Anyway – to business. I hope you don’t mind me coming to the point but you realize I’ve several other properties to see.”

  Pilsutski nodded. “Well then,” said Johnnie. “My colleague Mr Nader would obviously like to see the tenants’ rent books. Any chance of making them available?”

  “Rent books – ah,” said Pilsutski slowly. “Well, you must see, Mr –er –”