Maybe This Time

by Anna King

Ahead of him Pat stopped and waited for his brother. Side by side they walked on, the cold air causing their breath to billow in front of them like clouds of fog.

  Choosing his words carefully, Rory asked, ‘So this bloke then, just how much did he offer yer, Pat?’

  Pat glanced at his brother.

  ‘Is that all you’re interested in, Rory, the money?’ The contempt in his voice made Rory flinch.

  ‘That ain’t fair, Pat,’ he said defensively. ‘But like yer said, if we don’t do the work, that fella will soon find someone else. Why shouldn’t we get a few quid outta it?’

  Pat stopped abruptly.

  ‘What’s ’appened to yer, Rory? We all know about Cathy Meadows; it must be the worst-kept secret in the East End. And we all know she’s only after what she can get. She comes ’ome, cleans yer out, then pisses off again. And yer put up with it. You’ve changed, Rory. There was a time when you’d ’ave knocked a man senseless if ’e’d offered yer a bribe to build shoddy homes that might collapse. So I’ll ask yer straight: just how far would yer go to keep her? Or should I say, how low would yer sink?’

  Rory turned away, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Pat. You can talk. Freda only has to say jump and you say ’ow ’igh. She’s got yer right under the thumb, so don’t go getting all hypocritical on me.’

  Pat glared at his brother’s back.

  ‘Yeah, Freda’s got me in check, I won’t deny it, but there’s only so far she can push me, and she knows it. Now I’m off, ’cos the minute I tell her what’s going on, she’s gonna ask me the same question – you’ve got that much in common with me wife. You know, the woman yer look down yer nose at.’

  There was nothing Rory could say in his defence; he just stood out in the cold street, long after Pat had gone.

  * * *

  ‘Me and some of the men are going for a drink. D’yer fancy a pint, Pat?’ Rory stood in the doorway of the hut, looking at the dark head bent over a pile of papers.

  ‘What? Oh, no thanks, mate. I’ve gotta sort this lot out before I leave tonight. I wouldn’t mind a couple of pies though, Freda didn’t do me any lunch this morning. She’s got the ’ump with me, ’cos of the extra time I’ve been spending ’ere. It’d be different if I was getting paid overtime, but seeing as I ain’t…’ The broad shoulders lifted and he smiled. ‘She’ll just ’ave to like it or lump it for now.’

  ‘Blimey! You’re getting brave in yer old age.’ Rory grinned back. ‘I hope old Mister Hunter appreciates all you’re doing to keep ’is reputation intact while ’e’s off sunning ’imself abroad. Anyway, I’ll get off. I don’t wanna waste time talking in me dinner hour. Me governor’s a right old slave driver.’

  ‘And don’t forget me pies,’ Pat shouted after the retreating figure. Rory raised his hand to acknowledge the request and quickened his pace.

  Pat shook his head, then applied himself to the task in hand. After twenty minutes he put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Lord, but he was tired. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for the past month. Which wasn’t surprising, since he’d been doing the work of two men during that time. But he wasn’t the only one who’d been putting in the extra hours without extra pay. The way his men had rallied around to help was heartwarming; he was lucky to have such a good crew, for he couldn’t have managed without their support.

  Pushing back his chair, he paced the small hut, remembering the days following the visit from Robert Hunter. Pat had called a meeting the next morning, and apart from a few of the newer recruits, the men had stood firmly behind him. He had been unable to prevent Hunter from bringing in his motley crew, but he had been able to make sure that the unskilled labourers had been kept from taking part in any of the specialist tasks needed to make safe the homes they were building.

  Like Pat, the majority of the men were proud of their skills and craftsmanship, and didn’t want to see their work compromised by a group of navvies who, in Pat’s words, didn’t know their arse from their elbow. Also like Pat, most of the men had worked for Matthew Hunter for years and felt they owed some loyalty to the man who had kept them in steady employment.

  Unfortunately Pat hadn’t been able to stop Robert Hunter from obtaining materials from Murphy’s; and that, most of all, was the reason for his sleepless nights. So far he and his men had managed to use the inferior stuff where it could do the least damage, while saving what was left of the dwindling supply from Barnett’s for the important structural work. But those supplies were almost gone. Soon, maybe as early as tomorrow, they would be forced into using the substandard materials; it was either that or go on strike, and neither he nor his men could afford to do that. To make matters worse, the entire Flynn family depended on Hunter’s money. If it was just him, Pat would have had no compunction in handing in his notice.

  Rubbing his jaw, he stared out of the small window. He didn’t think he could go through with using the crumbling bricks and rotten planks that were stacked in the site’s warehouse. He’d been in the business long enough to know what havoc jerry-built homes could cause, often at the cost of innocent lives. Such homes could last for anything from four months to four years; a lot of the time it was down to sheer luck. If he went ahead with Hunter’s plans and anything happened to the occupants, he’d never be able to live with himself. He wasn’t alone in his doubts. Each and every man on the site knew the situation, and none of them were happy with it. What the hell was he going to do? Slumping back down in his chair, he tried to concentrate on the invoices but the words and figures appeared to dance before his tired eyes.

  He needed a break. If he carried on like this he’d end up in hospital. It hadn’t helped when Robert Hunter had turned up this morning, demanding to know when the work would be completed, his very presence causing disquiet among the men. Pat hadn’t been able to hide his disdain for the man, and his contemptuous manner hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Suddenly he felt an urgent need to get away from the hut, from the site. Picking up his jacket, he shrugged it on. He would join the men in the pub. Maybe a short time away from his working environment would liven him up.

  He was putting the padlock in place when he heard steps behind him. He half turned, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up in warning. His instincts proved to be sound. The last thing he remembered was seeing a stockily built man holding a steel pipe high in the air. Pat saw the pipe coming down towards him but it happened so quickly he never had the chance to protect himself. He never even felt the vicious blow, for he was rendered unconscious the second the steel pipe staved in the back of his head.

  * * *

  ‘Drink up, lads, we’ve still got a lot of work to get done before knocking-off time.’ Rory drained his glass and reluctantly placed it on the beer-soaked table.

  The men around the table groaned.

  ‘Don’t remind us, Rory. I’m bleeding knackered, we all are. You got any idea when old man Hunter is coming back?’ one of them asked.

  Rory shook his head.

  ‘Nope! I’m no wiser than you lot. It’s a pity there’s no way to get in touch with him. He’d be back like a shot if he knew what his precious son was up to.’

  As the men left the pub, Rory clapped his hand to his forehead.

  ‘Bleeding ’ell! I nearly forgot Pat’s pies. You lot go on, I’ll catch up.’

  Ten minutes later he entered the yard, then stopped in his tracks at the sight of the men grouped outside the hut.

  ‘’Ere, what’s going on?’ he called out, a ripple of alarm rushing through his body.

  Three men were kneeling on the ground, blocking his view; one of them was his father. Rory pushed through them, his breath catching in the back of his throat at the sight that met his eyes.

  Dropping to his knees, he gazed first at his brother, and then at his father, who was cradling Pat’s bloodied head in his lap.

  ‘Pat! Pat! Oh God!’ Twisting his body around, Rory yelled frantically,
‘Someone get some help—’

  ‘I’ve already sent Shaun to the hospital, Rory. There should be help coming soon.’

  Hearing the quiver in his father’s voice brought Rory’s head up sharply. His dad was crying. He had never seen Paddy cry, not ever. Rory’s nose began to tingle as tears welled up behind his eyes, and a fear such as he’d never known before struck him deep in the pit of his stomach.

  Pat’s head was a bloodied mess. Whoever had attacked him had obviously meant to inflict serious harm; if not worse.

  ‘Don’t just stand there. Get back, let him breathe, for Christ’s sake.’ Rory’s voice was pitched high with growing fear. He couldn’t feel any movement inside his brother’s chest, or anywhere else. To all intents and purposes Pat appeared dead.

  After what seemed an eternity, a hospital cart arrived, followed by a police wagon. Rory climbed into the ambulance with Pat and his dad, leaving the rest of the men talking to the police, and Shaun with the unenviable task of informing their mother that someone had tried to murder Pat.

  * * *

  ‘It’s done, Mister Hunter. That Irish bastard won’t be giving yer any more trouble.’ Harvey Banks, one of Robert Hunter’s henchmen, climbed into a waiting carriage and sat down heavily.

  Robert Hunter’s mouth was drawn in a tight line. In a short, clipped tone he said, ‘I hope you’re right about the other brother being more amenable, Banks. I don’t have time to worry about finding a new foreman; in particular one who does as he’s told without question.’

  Banks leered cruelly.

  ‘Don’t yer worry about that, Mister Hunter. It’s common knowledge round these parts that Rory Flynn’s got a fancy piece that likes the ’igh life. ’E’ll do what yer want, if yer offer ’im enough money.’

  Gripping his cane tightly, Robert Hunter raised it and knocked on the roof of the carriage. Immediately it began to move away from the kerb.

  Banks, knowing Hunter’s moods, saw the young man had withdrawn into himself and silently shrugged. It didn’t bother him if the stuck-up git didn’t want to talk. As long as he got paid each week, the little bleeder could do what he wanted.

  * * *

  It was gone ten o’clock before Rory left the hospital. His parents, Shaun and Freda had left over an hour ago after being told there was nothing they could do but go home and wait. A distraught Annie had at first refused to leave her son’s bedside, until finally, exhausted with tears, she had let herself be led away. Rory had volunteered to stay as long as the doctor allowed; or until Pat awoke, whichever came first.

  Stopping on the hospital steps, Rory lit up a Woodbine and took a deep drag into his lungs before walking down the rest of the steps and out on to the street. Pat still hadn’t regained consciousness, and Rory, needing a break and unable to put up with the odours that pervaded every hospital, had slipped out for a breath of fresh air. He took another satisfied drag, his mind filled with anger against the cowardly thug who had attacked his brother, and fear that Pat might die.

  The night had turned cold, and Rory shivered, turning up the collar of his jacket to protect his face and neck. Throwing the cigarette butt on to the stone step, he crushed it under his heel, wishing it was the face of the man who had left his younger brother for dead. He fought the temptation to light up another cigarette, and turned and walked with heavy footsteps back to the hospital, praying that when he returned Pat would have regained consciousness.

  ‘Mister Flynn. May I have a moment of your time?’

  Startled, Rory spun on his heel to see who had addressed him.

  A carriage was waiting in the road, its door open. Squinting in the direction of the voice, Rory walked slowly forward, his head bent warily to one side.

  ‘Over here, Mister Flynn,’ the same voice called again.

  Rory peered at the man hanging out of the window. He looked familiar. Rory kept on walking, trying to remember where he had seen the man before.

  ‘Mister Flynn? Mister Rory Flynn?’

  Rory was now face to face with the man.

  ‘Yeah! Who wants to know?’ he asked aggressively, then looked closer. ‘You’re Mister Hunter’s son, ain’t yer? I saw yer at the site this morning.’

  Putting on his most sympathetic face, Robert Hunter said gravely, ‘I was deeply upset to hear about your brother’s misfortune. How is he?’

  ‘About as well as can be expected after ’aving ’is head bashed in,’ Rory answered bitterly. Stepping back a pace, he stared at Hunter with suspicion. ‘What yer doing ’ere anyway? And don’t tell me you’re ’ere ’cos you’re worried about me brother. We both know there’s no love lost between you two.’

  ‘Please, Mister Flynn, I don’t want any unpleasantness. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending the only purpose for my visit is to enquire about your brother’s health; although please believe me, I am genuinely concerned. Nevertheless, this unfortunate incident has left me – temporarily, I hope – without a foreman. The contractors for the next building project are getting impatient. The work currently in progress is way behind schedule. That being the case, I’m sure you will appreciate that I need someone to take over your brother’s job as soon as possible. I thought that maybe you might be interested in filling in for him – just until he’s well enough to return to work.’

  Rory’s eyes narrowed, a sudden thought striking him. Reaching into the carriage, he grabbed hold of Hunter’s throat.

  ‘This is all very convenient for yer, ain’t it, Mister Hunter? My brother won’t go along with your crooked deals, and suddenly ’e’s put into ’ospital. If I thought yer ’ad anything to do with—’ A movement in the carriage caught Rory’s eye and he tightened his hold. ‘You tell your bully boy to keep well outta this, or by God I’ll throttle yer.’

  There was no doubt in Hunter’s mind that the maddened man meant every word. Gesturing to Banks not to interfere, he struggled to speak.

  ‘Please, Mister Flynn. I don’t blame you for being angry. I agree the whole sorry business may appear suspicious, but at least give me the benefit of the doubt before jumping to any conclusions.’

  Rory’s grip slackened but he remained wary.

  Rubbing his sore neck, Robert Hunter swallowed hard, the movement hurting his bruised throat. Blast these Flynns. They were each as stubborn and dangerous as the other. It must be the Irish blood in them. Everyone knew the Irish were renowned for their temper; and their drinking. If there was any other way to get the current building work completed in the allotted time, he wouldn’t have hesitated in letting his heavies give the arrogant man a good hiding. Yet as tempting as that idea was, suspicions would be raised if two of the Flynn men were beaten up in one day. And he would still be without a foreman. If he could persuade Rory Flynn to take Pat’s place, the men would accept him more readily than they would a stranger.

  ‘Take a walk, Banks. I wish to have a word with Mister Flynn in private.’

  ‘Righto, guv. Me an’ Benji will be around if yer need us.’ Banks stepped down from the cab, casting a menacing look at Rory. But Rory held the man’s gaze without flinching.

  Holding the door open, Hunter said, ‘Please, Mister Flynn, get in. All I ask is that you hear me out. If you don’t like what I have to say, then you can be on your way with no harm done. What do you say?’

  Rory stood in the street, still distrustful of Hunter’s real motives, then he climbed into the carriage. Like the man said, it wouldn’t hurt to listen, and it was warmer in the cab than out on the street. Pulling the door shut, he sat down opposite Hunter.

  ‘All right, I’m listening. But make it quick. I’ve got to get back to the hospital. I’ve been gone too long already.’

  Feeling more confident now, Robert Hunter began to talk.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pat lay in a coma for three days. And those three days seemed to the Flynn family like three years. Annie and Paddy stayed by their son’s bedside throughout most of the long, agonising wait.

  Jane,
despite tearful protests, had been ordered by Annie to continue working. Not only would it spare the young girl further distress, but also, as Annie had pointed out to her daughter, Josie couldn’t run the tea rooms by herself.

  The doctors had long since given up trying to persuade the family to stick to the hospital’s visiting times. For as soon as Shaun and Rory finished work, which could be as late as nine at night, they took their parents’ places by Pat’s side. This enabled Annie and Paddy to get home for a much-needed rest, and ensured there was someone with Pat at all times.

  And it wasn’t just the Flynns who were in constant attendance; there was also a steady stream of Pat’s workmates parading in their dirty overalls through the sterile ward, each of them anxious to see for himself that their gaffer was all right.

  The only good thing to come out of the horrifying attack was that it brought Freda closer to her in-laws. Annie had always believed that Freda had pushed Pat into marriage just so she could give up her job at the matchbox factory and live off his wages; now she knew differently. Freda was devastated at the thought of Pat dying, and turned to Annie for comfort. No doubt she would revert to type once Pat was back home, but witnessing Freda’s grief left Annie in no doubt of the love the woman felt for her husband.

  Even though Pat had regained consciousness, the doctors were still concerned, due to the severity of the blow he had suffered. Head traumas, they had explained to Pat’s anxious loved ones, were unpredictable; as a worried Annie was now repeating to Josie.

  ‘The big fellow, ye know, the one in charge, specialist so I’m told, anyway, one minute he’s telling us not to worry – pshaw!’ Annie tossed her head impatiently. ‘Jasus, but he might as well tell the Pope to get himself a wife. Anyway, according to this specialist, Pat could make a full recovery, or he might… he might… ‘ Her voice broke and she turned away.

  Josie watched helplessly as the small, stout woman vigorously attacked the pile of dirty crockery in the sink, her shoulders heaving up and down the only sign she was crying.