Christmas to Come: a heartbreaking coming of age saga set in London's East End

by Carol Rivers

  Of course he was certain. The dead women were his family, the only family that he, Micky and Sean had.

  'We found her bag straight away,' the man had told him gently. 'I know it's no consolation, but she wouldn't have known a thing.'

  No, it's no consolation at all, he had thought bitterly as he stared at the marble white face of his mother that had, twenty four hours ago, been full of life and energy. They loved their father, but all three of them worshipped their mother. Perhaps she had been asleep when it happened? Ronnie hoped to God that it was quick.

  He could still hear the rustle of the utility tarpaulins as they were replaced over the two still forms. See in his mind's eye the uniformed man who had taken his arm, intending to lead him away. Felt the frustration in his gut as he'd tried to decide whether it was all some sick joke.

  All he could think of then was the fact he wouldn't be looking into Mum's eyes again, their expression alert to whatever catastrophe had befallen her sons in her absence. She wouldn't be conjuring up a fried breakfast. Or chewing them off about they way they refused to get up in the mornings. Life as they had once known it had now come to an end.

  Ronnie looked hard at his brothers. 'Sean, I know there's no way we can bring back Mum. But if she was here she would tell us to pull ourselves together and sort ourselves out. So that's what we've got to do, right?'

  Sean shrugged helplessly. 'Why did it have to happen to her, Ron? I just don't understand.'

  'There's no answer to that question, Seany. I wish I could give you one.'

  'She never hurt no one. She'd give the coat off her back to anyone who asked. It was us that's done all the nicking. Why didn't that bomb fall on us?'

  'I wish it had,' Ronnie muttered darkly. 'But what's done is done and we're still alive and kicking.'

  'But that's just it, Ron, I don't feel right about what we did – you know – just before she went. It's as if it was us who made the bomb fall on her.'

  Ronnie jerked his head round. 'That's rubbish Sean, and you know it. Get it out of your head. We loved her, treasured her. And what we did was all for her, to give her a comfortable life as Dad would have wanted.'

  Sean swept the tears from his cheeks with a grubby hand. 'I don't know anything any more, only that Mum turned a blind eye to what we did and we took full advantage. She didn't have a clue as to what was happening half the time. If we'd told her we knocked off a load of stuff and wanted to bury it in the Anderson she would have given us all a slap for even thinking it.'

  Ronnie's face tightened. 'Point taken, Sean, but the fact is what the eye don't see, the heart don't grieve over. After Dad died it was too late to change what he'd started and I for one wouldn't have wanted to, anyway. The old man didn't spend his life teaching us the tricks of the trade for nothing. We was Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Give anyone a helping hand if they asked and bugger the sheriff. He kept telling us them stories over and over again. They came out of him like verbal diarrhoea and we believed every word. Still do.'

  Sean blinked his long lashes. 'I know Ron. But the country's at war and the punters we deal with are all in this lark for a profit, not to give to the poor and needy.'

  Ronnie couldn't argue with that. But his priority was family. If he didn't hold them together now, they'd fall apart. 'Look if it makes you feel any better, I'll agree that expanding the business into black market after Dad died was my decision, and I take full responsibility. I'm not saying I was right to do so, mind. That is a matter of opinion and you are entitled to yours. But I know in my heart it was the road Dad would have gone down. In my book, there was no doubt whatsoever as to continuing the business.' He paused as for a second saw his mother gazing back at him in the form of Sean's honest blue gaze. God only knew how the old man had worked the flankers he'd done and kept the old girl in such blissful ignorance. But he had and Ronnie commended him for it. Now it was history repeating itself and with Mum gone, it was Sean who had taken up her mantle. But Sean was the new generation of Bryants and as such, had either to support the business or get out of it completely.

  'Seany, let me put you straight on one thing. Mum never died because of what we did. It was nothing to do with us, so get that through your Uncle Ned. She died because a maniac in another country decided to start a war. And that's a fact you're going to have to accept.'

  There was silence in the room. Ronnie glanced at Micky who was sporting a face as long as a fiddle. 'Right, Micky, now it's your turn.' He braced his shoulders back and added firmly, 'I'm not sitting here all day looking at your moody gobs, so speak your mind or forever hold your peace.'

  Micky kicked the table leg idly. 'Since you're asking, Ron, what I don't fancy is Old Bill sniffing round. I've been shitting bricks lately, every time the door goes. Stands to reason they know Mum's gone and she won't be here to tell them to sling their hook. So where does that leave us, I ask? And the answer is, we're sitting here like three orphaned ducks.'

  'So what is the alternative?'

  'I reckon we get shot of this last little bundle. Take a dip on our profits if we have to, but just get clear of it.'

  Ronnie nodded slowly. 'Fair point. Any suggestions what we do with it?'

  'It's too hot for the markets and it would take too long to flog it round the pubs. What about shoving it Luffman's way? He'll rook us something chronic, but we'll have to swallow on that.'

  Ronnie begrudged giving Goldy Luffman the contents of his nose, let alone a generous deal, as he was the meanest sod this side of the river. However, Goldy took anything and everything and asked no questions. 'All right. Suits us this time, but from here on in we'll find somewhere legit to stash our Georgie Woods.' He turned slowly to Sean. 'So, are you up for a clean sweep, Seany?'

  'What choice have I got?' Sean replied moodily.

  'You've always got a choice in life.' Ronnie stared hard at his kid brother who up until this moment had always been just that, a kid. But with Mum gone he was going to have to step into the real world. 'You don't have to come with us on this one, bruv. Me and Micky will do the business. We'll sort out the Anderson and see Goldy.'

  'You what?' Micky objected, for the first time sitting up and paying attention.

  'I said Seany can sit this one out.'

  'But it took all three of us to move it,' Micky protested. 'A whole lorry load it was, buried six-foot down under a bloody shelter. We was at it like navvies and only finished just before the All Clear went.'

  'We'll manage.' Ronnie's tone was final. 'Sean's staying put.'

  'So what if I decide to sit on me arse all night, too?' Micky sulked.

  Ronnie sighed heavily. There was something in both his brothers' attitudes that worried him. Sean was frightened of his own shadow and Micky was in love with himself. They both needed to realize they had to give a lot and take a little between themselves. They were family. And if family couldn't hack it, who could?

  Micky continued to stare at him resentfully. There were rings round his blue eyes and a hollow look to his face. With his curly brown hair he was like their Dad, a charmer. Sean had the same intense blue gaze but with his light brown hair and soft, smooth features he was their mother all over. Now Ronnie looked at his two brothers and knew they would never be kids again, at liberty to fight amongst themselves and be stopped by a cuff round the ear. Now there could only be one leader. And as the oldest, he was it.

  'Right then,' Ronnie said decisively. 'I'll dig out the van and bring it round as soon as the first raid starts. There'll be no lights on anywhere and plenty of noise to distract any nosy parkers. I'll reverse up to the back wall and Sean, you can help us load the stuff, but then you'll come back in here and lie low. Me and Micky will drive over to Goldy's and be back before first light.'

  'It'll be a bloody miracle if we are,' Micky grunted.

  'We did it before. We can do it again.'

  'That is if Jerry don't drop one on our heads.'

  Ronnie smiled. 'He'll have to catch us first.'

  Ronnie
expected further protest and was prepared for it. But Sean hung his head, trying to disguise his wet cheeks and Micky was busy still kicking the table leg. He had always had a laugh at anything remotely serious. After Mum, he didn't know how to act.

  'And just to refresh our memories,' Ronnie continued, his gaze not leaving his brothers' faces. 'We'll keep this gaff ship shape, then. I don't want to find so much as a fag end under your beds – or anything else come to that. In other words, if the law was to shove its nose inside this house, all they'd find is a layer of dust and even that would be sweet smelling. Are you hearing me, you two?'

  'Yeah, yeah.' Micky rolled his eyes.

  Sean nodded in silence.

  'And no outside jobs,' Ronnie added firmly. 'No creeping, no spotting, no fitting. Not even a touch at the market. No nicking wallets, bags or goods. Nothing goes down unless I say so. The Bryants think, act, even shit as one.'

  Micky turned to face him and Ronnie was relieved to see a glimmer of humour return to his brother's eyes.

  'What about them kids outside?' Sean asked suddenly. 'They've been kipping right on top of the stock.'

  Ronnie had almost forgotten he'd allowed them to sleep in the shelter. After Mum's death he hadn't had the heart to send them back to Bow Street.

  'They'll have to go,' Ronnie nodded.

  'Lambs to the slaughter, I reckon,' Micky murmured, a glint in his eye.

  'But they're not our problem,' Sean said anxiously. 'Are they?'

  Micky shrugged. 'I reckon sending them back to Bow Street is like feeding mice to a cat. I'd like to see how handy the bastard is with someone his own size.'

  It wasn't often Micky made sense, Ronnie thought, but this time he was in full agreement. He felt a grudging admiration towards Micky. More than that, he knew his brother was no coward and had taken his punishment on the streets as well as dolling it out. Inside him there was a vicious streak that was pure hate for authority of any kind. Ronnie knew that if this trait could be harnessed for the good of the family, they would have a valuable asset in Micky.

  'You want to sort it out?' Ronnie asked.

  Micky's dark eyes lit up. 'Now you're talking, bruv.'

  But Sean was shaking his head. 'I don't like it. Those kids are bad news.'

  Ronnie was under no illusions as far as Sean went. He was never cut out for the physical. Mum had spoiled him rotten, and him and Micky had understood why. Sean was the total opposite to Micky who, given the chance, would happily take a swing at a bull with a match up its arse.

  'We'll start as we mean to go on,' Ronnie said without hesitation. 'Ask yourself this question, Sean. What would Dad have done if we had a sister and some lairy sod lifted a hand against her?' His face was set hard, its handsome proportions chiselled out in the broad daylight. 'This is our patch and we need the respect.' He paused, assessing his brothers' reactions. When no argument was forthcoming he continued. 'Now, are we all done?'

  Ronnie looked at them again. Then he stood up and felt the smooth material of his trousers fall over his long legs. He liked that feeling. He liked the fact that he now had his brothers' undivided attention and made a vow to keep it that way.

  Before leaving the room he picked up the newspaper. The polish of the table sparkled. He could remember his mum polishing it and the joy she took in doing so. It was a big, solid table, like the family he intended to cultivate. This was the first meeting he had called, but it wouldn't be the last. There would be many more to come.

  Now he instructed Sean to change his clothes and put on his working clobber. Ronnie had already convinced himself that the action he was about to take to remedy a bad situation, would achieve a result that his Dad, if not his Mum, would sanction.

  Chapter 4

  Jack Router was in dire need of a drink. He was also chastened by the nights he had spent squeezed in those bloody shelters with the stink of every Tom, Dick and Harry up his nose. The confinement had made him appreciate Bow Street even if it was little more than a ruin. At least there was only him and Mary and her two brats. Mind, he'd rather cut his tongue out than admit as much to Mary Doyle. He hoped by now she had learned her lesson. No woman gave him the elbow, especially a brass. And what would the bitch do without his protection, for pity's sake? With her spiteful tongue it was on the cards to fall foul of some bolshie punter refusing to cough up the price of a shag. Jack smiled to himself. She needed muscle at her side and he was her man. If she was still alive and kicking after nine days fending for herself, she would welcome him back on her knees.

  Damn the Luftwaffe, though! With landlords buggering off the instant the siren went it was hard to find a good drink these days. Not that he'd even set foot inside a pub today.

  Jack marched on, his thirst increasing. He first noticed the woman trailing him as he walked up to West India docks. She was on the game, no doubt. Sizing him up at a distance, he guessed. Calculating his worth and wondering how much he kept in his pocket.

  At first he ignored her. With that cow Rita Moult on the lookout, he had to be careful. He wasn't about to push his luck. Not in broad daylight anyway and not on the island. But a mile or two more and they'd be into Poplar.

  'Fancy a drink, love?' A waft of cheap perfume washed over him as he turned into Poplar High Street.

  'Clear off.' His tone was scathing as he glanced furtively over his shoulder.

  'Come on, ducks. You look like you need cheering up.'

  'I said clear off.'

  She grabbed his arm. 'That's not a nice way to speak to a lady.'

  'Show me the lady and I'm the pope.'

  She smiled brazenly. 'You're a laugh a minute, you are, sonny boy.' Her fingers slid over him and her touch aroused him. Well, why shouldn't it, he thought lustily? He was only human after all. And wasn't a man entitled to look elsewhere if his woman spurned him? He was sick to death of Mary's nagging. He didn't know where her two bastards were and didn't care. Good riddance to bad rubbish if you asked him. If she blamed him for their disappearance, so be it. He'd find another bed easy enough.

  'Come on, you could do with a quick one, I'll bet.' She linked her arm through his. 'Where you off to then?'

  Good question. Where exactly was he going to drown his sorrows? With Mary working the Rose, he'd lost his watering hole.

  'I'm on me way to Limehouse.' He didn't care for the walk, but it was the safest option. No one knew him round there.

  Her thin eyebrows raised. 'Despite the fact me feet are killing me, I know a cosy spot up the Commercial Road. Nice friendly landlord an' all.'

  'Yeah, I'll bet you do.'

  She lowered the neckline of her blouse with dirty fingers. 'What's it worth then, love? A drink or two surely? Come on, let's give ourselves a real laugh, shall we?'

  Jack soon forgot about his worries as they walked on. He could feel the angle of her hip touching him as he inhaled her scent. A stink that would normally have him gagging. But now it was a promise, a reminder of the man he was, and the desires he'd had to curb for too long. By seven o'clock they were installed on the back benches of the Fur and Feathers listening to the thud of the bombs in the distance. By eight they'd moved down the road to the George where the publican was game enough to still serve ale and curse the Luftwaffe at the same time. By ten, in the middle of a lull, they were staggering into the dim and musty light of some godforsaken alley, his pocket empty.

  Blearily he looked for a spot, somewhere dark and sheltered. Seeing a recess in the wall where rubbish spread across their path, he told himself he wouldn't get much better.

  'Come on, get your drawers down,' he growled as he pushed her against the stone.

  'Not here, it's too bloody dangerous.' She knew what was expected of her, but had the gall to push him away. He wasn't going to cough up a penny owing to the amount of booze she had thrown down her gob in the last two hours.

  He squinted at the face before him, grotesque in the blackout, all caked make-up and smudged lipstick. Her cheap perfume now filled him with dis
gust. She saw his expression and laughed in his face.

  He gripped her jaw hard. 'Spread your legs woman, or I'll do it for you.'

  'Not out here,' she refused stubbornly. 'Them bombers'll be back soon.'

  He loosened his buttons. 'Sod the bombers, you cow. Now hold still and damn the bloody raid.' He pulled up her skirt and forced himself between her legs. He entered her roughly and she stilled at once, as he knew she would, eager for him to finish his short, sharp thrusts. He placed his hands on the wet wall and groaned aloud at the disappointment of it all.

  'Pay up, you bugger,' she demanded as she rearranged her clothes.

  'Pay you?' A soft mist curled over the cobbles as he pushed her away. 'You've drunk me bloody dry, you witch.' He kicked her hard and she fell on the cobbles.

  She was still cursing as he staggered away. He felt no sympathy for a woman daft enough to work the docks alone. Consoling himself for the unsatisfying encounter, he pulled up the collar of his jacket and strode into the high street.

  A long walk back to Bow Street … but he intended to give Mary Doyle another chance. She'd been a nice little earner and he liked his life of leisure. He had managed to avoid enlistment with a little dodging and weaving, but the drawback was her kids, although the girl was growing up fast and would make him a few bob on the docks. Jack grinned lustily as he turned into Bow Street.

  He'd have Mary on her knees and begging him to stay. Nine days away from her nagging had shown he didn't care. The whore would welcome him with open arms.

  Mary Doyle sat in front of a cracked mirror dressed in a black silk blouse and tight green skirt. Her hair fell loosely on her white skin and the look in her eye told him she was far from pleased at his arrival. Jack also noted she was not on her knees, at least, not to him.

  'What's going on?' he demanded as he slammed the door behind him. He looked suspiciously around expecting to find a punter. So she'd been doing trade behind his back had she, the bitch?