Luck Be a Lady

by Anna King

  The turning point in their lives had come about when Richard, then twenty-two, had met a young woman and fallen in love. When he had declared to his sister his intention of getting married, Maude had suddenly developed a mysterious ailment and taken to her bed. Despite the numerous doctors Richard had brought in to examine his older sister, no explanation could be found as to why Maude had abruptly become an invalid. Richard had his suspicions, for whatever other faults he had he wasn’t a stupid man. Maude had always been in perfect health before the announcement of his forthcoming marriage. Things would have been different if Maude had formed other interests and acquaintances, as he had, but the truth was that his sister had never had the ability to make friends, and at the age of twenty-six, an age when most women were married with children, Maude, who was unattractive, both inside and out, was unlikely ever to achieve the married state. Knowing his sister as he did, Richard assumed she would soon get tired of lying in bed, for if there was one thing Maude loved, it was going out and spending money. So he bided his time, continued his courtship, paid a neighbour to drop in on Maude once a day, and carried on with his life.

  A year passed, and still Maude remained bedridden, apart from the occasional excursion down to the kitchen to cook herself a meal, after which she would proclaim herself to be exhausted. By this time, Richard’s fiancée was becoming increasingly impatient at the continuous delay in setting a date for their wedding. In desperation, Richard had suggested that they get married and move in with Maude until his sister was better; it was a suggestion that hadn’t gone down well with the young woman in question. If it hadn’t been for Richard’s concern as to what people would think of him for deserting his ailing sister, he would have left Maude to fend for herself without a second’s thought. But other people’s opinion had always been important to Richard and, desperate to portray the impression of a decent, concerned brother, he had stayed, and lost his fiancée in the process – a fact he had never forgiven Maude for. If he had disliked his sister before, the hate he eventually built up towards her over the years became so intense he couldn’t bear to go near her for fear of what he might do. Eventually he hired a nurse to come in every day, then it became necessary to engage another nurse to be in attendance during the night, for there was no way on God’s earth he was going to go anywhere near the woman who, to Richard’s mind, had ruined his life.

  Maude stirred uneasily in the double bed, feeling tears of self-pity well up behind her eyes. She knew only too well Richard’s intense dislike of her, for he had never tried to hide how he felt, at least when they were on their own, an occurrence that had become less and less over the years. Then had come the news of the deaths of their cousins. At first Richard hadn’t wanted to go, then he had decided that it might look bad if he was the only one of the family not to attend the funeral, even though he hadn’t seen the Bradfords for years. And the rest, as they said, was history.

  Blinking back the tears, Maude tossed fretfully from side to side. When Richard had first brought the remainder of the Bradford family home, she had been incensed at having her house invaded by strangers. But Richard had made it quite clear that he couldn’t afford to carry on paying the exorbitant fees for the care she was receiving, and that either she accepted being looked after by the young Rebecca Bradford or she could go into a home. And it wouldn’t be one of those posh homes either. Oh, no, Richard had spent enough money on his sister over the years. If she opted for a home, then it would be the cheapest one he could find; and Maude knew what she could expect from places like those. The arrangement had worked out better than Maude had thought, and up until today she had imagined herself set up for life. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  As the tears finally escaped from beneath her eyelids, Maude contemplated that, in the process of ruining Richard’s life with her sudden affliction, she had also ruined her own. Maybe if she had made the effort years ago while she was still reasonably young, she might have made a life for herself, but now, at the age of forty-six, it was too late for her to start over. Beating at the quilt with her pudgy fists, she cried silently, ‘I don’t want to start over. I want things to stay as they are. It’s not fair… It’s not fair.’ The tears rained down her face as she thought of the life she had wasted, knowing that she had brought about her predicament of her own free will. She tasted the salty tears as they ran into her mouth – tears of anger and desperation, but mostly brought on by fear.

  *

  As Rebecca descended the stairs, her heart was also beating rapidly, but for very different reasons. It had been two weeks since she and Amy had been attacked, but it seemed like only yesterday. She was still badly shaken by what had happened, as too was Amy, who was at present curled up in the armchair reading one of her favourite novels, which supposedly reflected true life, but was, in Rebecca’s mind, a load of old toffee. Peeping into the front room to make sure her sister was all right, Rebecca saw Amy, her nose engrossed in the well-thumbed paperback book, and crept silently into the kitchen where she began to prepare the Sunday dinner, her mind going over the events of the fortnight.

  Deliberately skipping over the attack, Rebecca thought back to the evening after Jimmy Jackson had left the house, with a reluctant and sullen Billy Gates leaving soon afterwards. Upstairs, Maude had worked herself into a frenzy, shouting down the stairs, demanding to know what was going on, then Phil had arrived home at ten o’clock with Richard in tow. Both men had fussed over the two young women, declaring all sorts of retribution if ever they got their hands on the scum who had attacked their girls, words that had hung emptily in the air, for neither of them would ever have the gumption to face the kind of men who had waylaid their charges. It had also been obvious that Phil and Richard had been profoundly disappointed to find their esteemed guest had flown the coop, as was evident by their talk of wanting to meet with Jimmy Jackson and thank him personally, when what they both wanted was the chance to ingratiate themselves with the well-known bookmaker. Even this morning, Phil had come into her room asking if she wanted to send a letter or short note of thanks, which he would be only too glad to deliver, of course. His kindly countenance had soon dropped when Rebecca had replied stoutly that she had already thanked the man, and had no intention of dragging the sordid affair out any longer. Looking like a child who had just been refused a bag of sweets, Phil had flounced from her room muttering angrily under his breath, his bedroom door slamming behind him, where no doubt he still was, either asleep or sulking. Rebecca lifted her eyes and sighed heavily. If he started again when he finally dragged himself out of bed, she’d go for him with the nearest object to hand… Oh, yes, she would. Her head bounced on her shoulders as if adding emphasis to her silent words.

  With the joint of meat in the oven and the potatoes peeled, Rebecca took off her apron and went into the front room, where Amy was just closing her book.

  ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ Rebecca said cheerfully. ‘Their eyes met across a crowded room and it was love at first sight – or they hated each other at first sight, fought all the way through the book and ended up falling in love; which version was it this time?’

  Amy looked up guiltily, then smiled shyly. ‘Oh, Becky, you’re such a cynic. It can happen, you know. I mean, no one would ever get married if it didn’t, would they?’

  Rebecca had to admit to a certain logic in what Amy said and answered back playfully, ‘Yes, I suppose so, but not in the way those kind of books portray life. For instance, have you ever read a book where the hero is short, fat and bald, and the heroine has a face like a horse, no bust, and legs like drumsticks? Oh, no, in those kind of books, the hero is always tall, dark and handsome, with bulging thighs encased in tight trousers, and the heroine is blond and beautiful, with legs up to her armpits and a heaving bosom; why their bosoms are always heaving has always been a mystery to me. The nearest I’ve ever got to seeing a heaving bosom is when Maude’s in one of her moods, and I don’t think that sight would make any man’s heart beat faster, do you?’r />
  Amy looked at her sister and both girls started to giggle, imagining Maude’s ponderous breasts rising and falling beneath the bedclothes. The giggles soon turned to loud laughter, and they continued to laugh even when Maude began banging on the floor above. Wiping her eyes, Amy sniffed, hiccuped and said, ‘You seem to know a lot about these kind of books. I thought you never read any of them. Whenever I see you with a book, it’s always by Dickens or Thackeray.’ A sly smile tugged at Amy’s lips. ‘You do read them, don’t you, you crafty thing.’

  A flush of guilt rose in Rebecca’s cheeks, then, looking at Amy’s gleeful face, she admitted sheepishly, ‘Yes, all right, I’ve read some of them. But only when I need something I don’t have to concentrate on. And you must admit, love, they are all the same stories. The writers just change the names and locations around a bit, but the end result is always the same. Anyway…’ Rebecca stood up, her manner brisk. ‘How about helping with the vegetables, young miss, or do you plan to copy our dear cousin and expect to be waited on?’

  Amy uncurled her legs and rose from the confines of the armchair, then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, she said, ‘Jimmy Jackson’s not bad looking, and you’re not too bad yourself. It’s a pity your bosom doesn’t heave… Ooh…!’ Amy ducked as Rebecca aimed a playful swipe at her blonde head.

  *

  It was after three. The Sunday roast had been consumed by a sullen Phil and a subdued Maude, the latter in her room, of course, and Rebecca and Amy were just finishing off the last of the washing-up when a loud knock sounded at the front door.

  Rebecca and Amy exchanged glances.

  ‘Oh, Lord, I hope it’s not Billy again. He’s hardly been off the doorstep this past fortnight, and while I appreciate his concern, I can’t help feeling he’s only using what happened to us as an excuse to visit more often.’ Hanging up a tea towel, Rebecca looked to Amy, saying, ‘Will you get it, love? And if it’s Billy, tell him I’m lying down, or something. I really can’t face another hour or so of stilted conversation. I mean, his heart’s in the right place, but he’s so boring. He could put a glass eye to sleep.’

  Amy nodded sympathetically, then chuckled. ‘I take it he’s not your idea of the dashing hero from one of my books, eh?’

  Suppressing a laugh, Rebecca playfully picked up the tea towel and flicked it at the disappearing rump of her sister, then sat down at the small wooden table, her ears listening out for the voice of their visitor, but unable to hear properly from the kitchen. Then she jumped as Amy, her eyes shining, her pretty face wreathed in smiles, came bounding into the room, her arms filled with the biggest bunch of flowers Rebecca had ever seen.

  ‘It’s that Charlie. You know, Jimmy Jackson’s driver. He wants to know if I’d like to take a walk over the park with him. Can I, Becky? Ooh, please, can I go?’

  Rebecca looked up at the pleading animated face, then to the flowers, and was ashamed to experience a pang of jealousy at her sister’s evident pleasure. Summoning up a smile she said mischievously, ‘As long as he isn’t wearing skin-tight breeches encasing bulging thighs – among other parts of his body, I don’t see why not. Anyway, since when did you need my permission to go out?’

  Amy squealed with delight. Dropping the flowers onto the table she threw her arms around Rebecca’s neck, crying, ‘You know I always ask you before I go out anywhere, Becky.’

  As her sister left the room at a run, Rebecca called after her, ‘Hang on, aren’t you going to put these flowers in water? I must say Mr Jackson must pay his employers well if they can afford to buy presents like this.’

  Then Rebecca’s stomach lurched as Amy swirled around, saying, ‘Oh, Charlie didn’t buy them, they’re for you – from Jimmy. Sorry, Becky, I meant to say.’ Still beaming with excitement, Amy added, ‘What shall I wear, Becky? What about my yellow dress, or maybe the blue one; what do you think?’

  Her heart still hammering, Rebecca said nonchalantly, ‘Seeing as you’re going to have to wear your coat, I don’t see how it matters what you wear… Uum, Amy, did Charlie have any message, I mean…?’ She felt herself blushing, then when she spoke again she was annoyed to find herself stammering. ‘Well, not that I’m that bothered. It was very nice of Mr Jackson to send me the flowers… I just wondered, that’s all,’ her voice trailed off lamely.

  ‘No, he didn’t say anything. Just to give you the flowers with Mr Jackson’s compliments.’ Amy stopped in her mad dash, her eyes surveying her sisters flushed cheeks. ‘Not that you’re bothered, of course.’ Then she let out a peal of laughter before scurrying from the room.

  Rebecca sat looking at the bouquet of flowers, wondering where Jimmy Jackson could have obtained such a beautiful bunch at this time of the year. Slowly picking them up, she held them to her nose, breathing in the heady aroma, her eyes glowing with pleasure at the kind gesture. It would have been nicer if the man himself had brought them around in person. Still, as the saying went, it was the thought that counted. She was busily putting them into a large crystal vase when Phil, his face bearing no trace of the sullen features he had displayed throughout dinner, burst into the scullery, his entire being filled with excited agitation.

  ‘Quick, Becks. Jimmy’s waiting outside in his carriage. I’m just off upstairs to change… Oh, for Christ’s sake, leave those…’ He indicated the flowers Rebecca was carefully arranging. ‘He might go if you don’t show your face… Come on, get a move on!’

  Rebecca turned to her brother, who was dressed in an old pair of trousers, his shirt unopened to the waist, with an equally decrepit pair of braces holding up the ill-fitting trousers. Fighting down the churning in her stomach, she curled her lips scornfully. ‘Will you take a look at yourself, Phil. It’s embarrassing the way you’re behaving. Anyone would think King George himself was waiting outside the door instead of your bookie. And although I don’t know Mr Jackson that well, having only met him the once, I don’t imagine him to be the sort of man to be impressed by obsequious behaviour. In fact it’s positively cloying. As for getting changed, unless Jimmy Jackson is another way inclined – which I very much doubt – I shouldn’t think he’ll be looking at how well dressed you are.’

  Now it was Phil’s turn to blush as Rebecca’s harsh words hit home. But she wasn’t finished yet. Slowly completing her task she added dryly, ‘It’s a pity Richard isn’t here as well. You’d make a right pair.

  One of you could lick Mr Jackson’s boots while the other one polished them.’

  His face angry now, Phil hissed spitefully, ‘You can be a right bitch at times, Becky, you…’

  Rebecca returned his malevolent glare with studied impunity. ‘You may be right, Phil. Maybe it has something to do with the environment I’ve been living in these past five years. Being an unpaid dogsbody can sour a person’s disposition, but you wouldn’t know anything about that way of life, would you?’

  Brother and sister locked eyes, but it was Phil who turned away first, and with an angry, muttered oath, he spun on his heel, and like Amy bounded up the stairs to make himself presentable.

  Rebecca glanced down at her red dress, a dress she had had for many years, and which still had plenty of life left in it. A serviceable dress she wore when round the house or out shopping; but then where else did she ever go? She had other clothes – skirts and blouses and dresses she had made herself over the years, a task she enjoyed immensely when she had the time to indulge in her passion. She had always been adept with a needle and thread, a talent passed on to her by her late mother, and enjoyed nothing better than creating her own styles of dress. Yet she rarely had the opportunity to wear any of her creations, until today. Glancing towards the open door, Rebecca could see an awkward-looking Charlie standing just inside the front room – and outside, sitting in a waiting carriage, was Jimmy Jackson, probably waiting for an invite into the house. Once again Rebecca looked down at her old dress and sighed. How could she possibly change into something more presentable after what she had said to Phil? A wry smile hovered
around her lips as she recalled her words to Maude earlier on. It looked like Maude wasn’t the only one to have ‘shot herself in the foot’ today. Removing her apron, Rebecca took a quick look in the small mirror hanging on the far side of the kitchen wall. Her face was flushed, and wisps of her thick golden hair, pleated into a neat braid at the base of her neck, had escaped the tight pins and were lying in disarray around her forehead and cheeks. She started to tidy her hair, then let her hands fall by her side. If Jimmy Jackson wanted to see her, then he would see her as she was. Taking a deep breath she ventured forth to greet her visitor.

  Chapter Seven

  Jimmy Jackson sat patiently outside the terraced house in Welbeck Road waiting for Charlie to return from his errand. Being a Sunday, Jimmy was anxious to get to his club, a club whose hallowed doors he would never have been allowed to stand outside only ten years ago. But times had changed, or at least he had, in monetary terms that is. Beneath the affluent surface he, Jimmy Jackson, was still the same cockney lad he had always been – as Bessie was constantly reminding him. Taking another look at the front door Charlie had disappeared into, and seeing no sign of life, Jimmy sighed and leant his head back against the leather upholstery. He didn’t often dwell on the past, thinking it a fool’s pastime, but at moments like this, when there was nothing else to occupy his mind, he couldn’t help but remember his childhood, and how far he had come since those early, harrowing days.

  Born to parents who were both drunkards, Jimmy had learnt how to survive on his own. It was a lesson he’d had to learn fast, or perish on the back streets of the East End. His first memory was of being thrashed with a leather belt, and the constant ache of an empty belly. Both memories were painful, but if he had received even a modicum of love and affection from either of his parents, life would have been tolerable. In the dingy back street where he had been born, there were many families like his, poor and often starving. Yet even in families such as these, the majority of the parents did their best for their offspring, often going without, as long as their children were fed and clothed. Not so the Jacksons, who were looked down upon by their neighbours, and in a community such as the one in which Jimmy had been raised, that was something to be deeply ashamed of. Not that either of his parents cared. They were always too drunk to worry about what the neighbours thought of them. It was these same neighbours who, although desperately short of food themselves, would often give the small, hungry child a bite to eat, and offer him shelter when he had run from the hovel he called home out onto the filthy street for safety, terrified by the sight of his parents fighting and screaming abuse at each other.