by Carol Rivers
Mrs Taylor clapped her hands. 'All of you go out to the back yard and play.'
'We want to hold the baby,' they protested. 'And it's cold outside.'
'Then put on your coats.'
The mischievous children ran off and Ronnie, Michael and Bella managed to squeeze on the couch. There were white fluffy nappies and baby clothes everywhere.
'He's just has his feed so you can hold him if you want,' Dolly said, about to get up.
But Bella stood up. 'You should be resting. Here …' She slid her hands under the tiny bundle. Neville's little black eyes opened as she rocked him. 'He's a solid weight, Dolly.'
Dolly laughed. 'Now I know why I was always eating for two.'
'Look, he's smiling!'
'It's probably only wind.'
'No, I'm sure it's a smile.' Bella tipped him up in the crook of her arm for everyone to see.
'He wanted a feed every few hours in the night,' Dolly pointed out, frowning at Percy.
'That's my boy for you.' Percy puffed out his chest.
'And someone – not to mention names - slept through it all!'
'I was out like a light, thanks to Ron,' Percy chuckled and Ronnie grinned as Mrs Taylor called out, 'Tea's ready,' from the kitchen.
There was chaos for the next half hour as food was dispensed and eaten on laps or wherever there was a space. Mrs Taylor took the baby and at last, full to the brim, Neville went to sleep.
After tea, the men took the children to the park to give the women a break. Dolly showed Bella the new clothes she had knitted for Neville in blue wool. Most of the girls' clothes were pink so Bella had brought a blue and white matinee coat and gloves to match.
'They're lovely,' Dolly said eagerly. 'He'll need those this winter.'
'We'll go to the market for some wool after Christmas,' Bella promised.
'What are you doing on the twenty-fifth?'
Bella shrugged. 'I'm not sure. Sean and Ashley said they're going away for Christmas and Ron just told me he's having dinner with a friend.'
Dolly looked surprised. 'Who's that?'
'He didn't say.'
'Didn't you ask?'
'No, because I know the real reason is he doesn't want to be in the house without Joyce.'
'So what will you do?'
'Just cook for us, I expect.' Bella hoped she wouldn't ask any more, but she did.
'How's Micky?' Dolly enquired just as Mrs Taylor brought in the screaming Neville again.
Bella was glad that the baby's loud yells made it impossible for her to reply.
It was the twenty-second of December and Sean and Ashley called at the coffee bar on their way to the airport. They brought Christmas presents with them that they asked Bella to stow under the tree. Sean was excited about their holiday in Switzerland and showed Bella the travel brochures. Skiing was the in-thing as many of their customers had told them. Sean was keen to take lessons whilst Ashley was content with the ski-lift.
'Don't break any legs,' Gina warned them. 'I want that nice hair-do you promised me, Sean. I'm fed up with all these grey hairs.'
Ashley grinned. 'It'll be me who has the grey hair, watching him try to ski down the mountain slopes.'
'I'll be all right, as long as I don't meet an avalanche,' laughed Sean.
There were more rude comments before finally they left for their long-awaited holiday.
'Why don't you have tomorrow off?' Gina suggested at five o'clock as they cleared the tables. 'Take Michael out to do some Christmas shopping. He must get a bit fed up in the holidays.'
'Oh, he's off with Teresa to the youth club. They spend a lot of time there now.'
'So have a day off and pamper yourself. Tina's here, remember. You're not indispensable girl.'
Bella laughed. 'I know that. And it would be nice to go shopping.'
That night, on her own, Bella thought about Micky. Where was he? He hadn't shown up since demanding money from her. Did he find enough to pay McNee. And should she have told Ron what happened? Ron was his brother after all. But Ron was dealing with his own problems and still grieving for the woman who was gone from his life. All these things were running through her mind. Unable to settle, she picked up the newspaper. She read it through and was about to close it when she noticed a small article. "Fire at Downey Manor".
Downey Wood - the name was familiar. She racked her brains trying to think where she had heard it. And then it came to her! Downey Wood was where Terry had been found! She read the few lines as her heart started to beat rapidly. There had been one casualty, an elderly woman who had died in hospital. Amongst other treasures that had been rescued from the house were a number of oil paintings.
Bella closed the newspaper, wondering who the woman was and how that place seemed to be ill-fated. She scoured the paper again, but could find nothing else on the fire. But what she had read had left her with a foreboding feeling she just couldn't shift. That night, after Michael came home from the youth club, she thought about knocking on Ronnie's door and sharing her concerns with him.
But once again, she felt that she couldn't burden Ronnie - and so she went to bed, securing the front door with the bolt, just as she had every night since Micky had gone crazy and ransacked their bedroom.
Christmas Day passed quietly. Bella listened out for more news on Downey Manor but there wasn't any. She cooked dinner and after unwrapping their presents, she and Michael listened to the Queen. As she told of the many countries she had visited in 1961, Bella's thoughts strayed again to Micky? Was he ever coming home? And if he didn't, what was she going to do?
That night Bella let the tears fall. She had to keep a brave face for Michael. It was only when she was alone that she could give way to her true sorrow. Her marriage was a failure. She had tried so hard to make it work. If only Micky would change his ways. Sell the clubs as he'd promised. They could manage on her wage from the coffee bar until he found something else to do. If he was free from the worry of his debts, she had been sure they could be happy again.
Early on Boxing Day morning there was a knock at the door. 'Who's there?' Bella asked before unlocking it.
'Detective Inspector Reynolds.'
Her heart missed a beat. It was the policeman who had investigated Terry's death.
'I'm sorry to intrude during the holiday, Mrs Bryant,' he apologised as he stepped in. 'Is your husband at home?'
'No. Why do you want him?'
'Just an enquiry.'
Michael came out, still wearing his pyjamas. The policeman smiled in a friendly way. 'Hello, young man.'
'Sit down.' Bella nodded to the chair.
Removing his hat, he made himself comfortable. 'As you may know, there was a fire at Downey Manor, the estate where your brother died.'
Bella nodded anxiously. 'Yes, I read about it.'
'We are looking into the circumstances of Lady Downey's death.'
'So it was Lady Downey who died?'
'I'm afraid so.'
Bella frowned unable to make the connection between this and the policeman's visit. 'What's Lady Downey got to do with my husband?'
'We have some evidence that suggests he knew her.'
Bella sat down quickly. 'What kind of evidence?'
'A receipt from a garage in London signed by your husband. It was recovered from a wall safe at the premises, untouched by the fire. Through subsequent enquiries we believe the garage was owned by Mr Bryant.'
'He did have a garage,' Bella agreed hesitantly. 'But he sold it. Micky went into clubs as you probably know.'
'Yes, I do, as a matter of fact,' the detective agreed. 'The new owner of the garage has confirmed the date of change of ownership. This receipt states that a Jaguar car, a very expensive model, was sold to Lady Downey by Mr Bryant just prior to your brother's death.'
Bella could only stare at him. Micky had never told her anything about this.
'I take it you can't help me with any more information?'
Bella shook her head. 'No ... no .
..' she whispered almost to herself.
'It's surprising isn't it?' the inspector said slowly, 'that Mr Bryant never brought this to light when we were investigating your brother's death?'
'There must be a mistake,' Bella protested, feeling bewildered. 'Are you sure it wasn't Milo who signed the receipt? The salesman who worked for Micky.'
'That would be a gentleman by the name of Miles Heath-Gash?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'No, Mrs Bryant. The signature is your husband's. Unfortunately …' the policeman paused again, 'Mr Miles-Gash, we discovered, was involved in a road accident shortly after leaving your husband's employ and died of his injuries.'
'Miles is dead?' Bella felt a wave of fear go through her. Micky had never said a word about this either.
'We need to speak to your husband to clear up this matter. Do you know where he is?'
Bella gave a slight shrug. 'Not exactly. But you might find him at the Fortune or the Flamingo in Soho.'
He nodded slowly. 'I'm sorry to have troubled you. I hope I won't have to bother you again.'
Bella followed him to the door. 'Inspector, is Terry's case still open?'
'Obviously this is a new development, Mrs Bryant. We're following up every lead we have.'
'It might just be a coincidence that Micky sold the car at the same time.'
'Yes, but your husband omitted to disclose the connection. Why would he do that? And there is something else, another line of enquiry …' A frown spread slowly over the man's face. 'Along with the receipt, a great deal of money was discovered in the safe. Most of it was counterfeit. Obviously we would like to find out why it was in there and where it came from.'
'But Micky wouldn't know anything about that!' she blurted, almost laughing. 'I mean, Micky might have his faults, but he's not a forger.'
'I hope you're right, Mrs Bryant.' He stared at her for a while as though trying to read her thoughts, then slipped on his hat as he went out. 'If you think of anything that could be useful to us, please ring me on this number.' He handed her a card.
Bella watched him walk up the airey steps.
Michael came to stand beside her. 'Why didn't Dad tell them about that car?' he asked as they went back inside.
'I don't know, Michael.'
'What does 'counter-feet' mean?'
'It means false money,' she replied shakily as she frantically tried to make some sense of what the policeman had told her.
Chapter 29
Alfred Freshwater stood in his empty cellar for the last time. Other than the elderly, ink-stained wooden table on which the printing machine had stood, a few piles of dust and the mould that was beginning to creep into the brick walls and mask the smell of print, it was like any other cellar. But he was leaving the best part of his life down here, under the boards. He felt as though he had unassembled himself at the same time as he'd taken the plates apart and hammered the rest of the contraption flat. Now his life's work was just a pile of metal in a Hoxton scrap yard. It was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, other than burying Gyp.
Well, no use looking back. He still had Nellie. If he was honest - which he wasn't - the thing that saddened him most was the fact that no one appreciated the real skill of his work. He had turned out masterpieces on an antiquated printing press and fooled the most professional eyes of the country.
He was hardly likely to boast about that though, was he?
How much of his work was still locked up in vaults and undiscovered, he wondered? Odds on, the odd pound or two was still in circulation. Not that he'd worked since Downey Wood. He wasn't that committed to his trade. No point in running a risk when he had enough kosher lucre to see him and his old woman through to the end of their lives. That Micky, the mad bastard, had set him up with a tasty pension. His one regret was Terry. He was only a kid and hadn't stood a chance with the bugger who shot him.
Alfred trod slowly up the stairs. He flicked off the single bulb hanging from the ceiling and lifted the trap door. His wife shuffled down the hall to meet him.
'Are you ready?' His voice was gentle, because he knew the answer.
'I put his blanket over him. Still can't believe he's gone.'
'Don't reckon he has really.' Alfred followed her through the kitchen to the basket on the floor in which the animal had slept for the past sixteen years.
Funny that, the Manor going up in flames and Gyp pegging out shortly after, Alfred ruminated uneasily. Like a message from heaven to get on his bike. But it still wasn't easy to leave the poor sod here.
Alfred lifted the animal, not altogether a lightweight and made his way to the garden. Together he and Nellie lowered the last of their life in Hoxton and sixteen years of memories, into the hole. When the burial was over, he threw the spade aside. 'Come on gel, we've said goodbye to our Gyp, now it's adios to good old Blighty.'
'What time's the taxi?' he asked as they went back to the house and gathered their few belongings.
'What's wrong with the bus?' Nellie enquired, tying a headscarf around her head.
'Nothing, I suppose.' They could afford to buy a bus if they wanted, he told himself cheerfully. But Nellie had her eye on the ackers. A thrifty woman, was his Nell, which, he freely admitted, had always worked in their favour. But today they were travelling to Dover. Catching a cross-channel ferry to Calais.
'Here we come sunny Spain,' he said, taking a last look at the place he had lived and worked in since he and Nellie were married nearly forty years before.
She nodded. 'No more flaming wet weather.'
'No more colds and backache.'
'No heating bills in Spain. They've got summer all year round.'
Alfred congratulated himself on the fact that a Face he knew had sold them a villa on the Costa Brava, at a knock-down price and thrown a score in with it. But then, he would, wouldn't he? It was part payment for services rendered, a mutual arrangement that had worked out very well for them both. 'What about cash?' he asked Nellie as an afterthought.
'It's all in the bank. But we've enough for the journey.'
He smiled. They were travelling light. The way travellers really should travel. 'I'll buy you a nice Spanish dress when we get there.'
'No, ta. I ain't into frills and fancies.' Nellie grinned up him, her shining brown eyes reminding him of the long years of their faithful partnership.
He put on his coat. 'Well, it's cherrio England, then!'
When they got to the gate, a bus whooshed by.
'We've missed that bloody one,' his wife complained. 'Now we'll have to wait half an hour for another.'
'Told you we should've got the taxi.'
She threw him a disapproving frown. 'You always was a spendthrift, Alfred. At least when we get to Spain you won't know your Pesetas from your pound.'
Alfred smiled to himself. He wasn't quite ready to lay down and roll over yet. He had already been to the library and taken a gander at the Spanish currency. They had pictures of some very interesting banknotes in the illustrated books.
Lenny rubbed his smoothly shaven chin as he watched the red bus drive past.
It was the first day of 1962 and he felt proud to be wearing his London Transport uniform. Like the man sitting up there in the driving seat, he too was part of the capital's public services. True, he hadn't been on the buses for long, four months to the day in fact. He'd only signed up for the job in order to pass the coffee bar on a regular basis. But in those four months he had started to believe in himself again. He was escorting his passengers up and down the city's roads, enjoying all the rabbit and pork. He was in charge for once, a bloke, doing a bloke's job.
He had all the times of departures and arrivals off pat. He knew his route blindfolded. He had even put in for overtime. Not that he'd have got the job if he'd revealed the truth, that he was an ex-con. But he'd taken the risk and found himself issued with a uniform, a cap and his number plate. The best blooming bit of luck in all his life.
Now his shift was over
and he was standing in the perishing cold on the first day of the New Year, drawn like a moth to a flame. The coffee bar had closed and the kids had all gone home. This was the time he liked best, when the lights flooded out into the dark street and Gina had the place to herself. Sometimes she played the jukebox, doing that little wiggle with her hips. He'd got sick to the teeth of Only the Lonely though, even though liked to watch her. She was a lovely mover.
As Lenny turned up the collar of his standard issue greatcoat, he saw a car pull up. It screeched to a halt and the driver leapt out. Lenny's eyes narrowed. He knew that silhouette. His heart raced as the figure banged on the door.
Gina let him in. Lenny saw her expression change. He could tell she was getting angry. Then she was backing away, struggling to distance herself and protect the till at the same time.
It was obvious the bugger was after the takings!
Lenny jumped into the road. A car missed him by inches. He jumped back again. When he looked up, the two of them were behind the counter and Gina was trying to drag him away from the till. He pushed her off. She tried again and this time he belted her.
Lenny not only saw red, he yelled out like a wounded elephant and barged his way into the traffic. Headlights blinded him, a rush of wind tore at his coat. An engine roared in his ears and a horn blasted. But he ran on, interweaving, dodging, his heart thumping as loudly as a pneumatic drill.
Gina was on the floor when he burst in.
The next thing he knew he had his hands round Micky's throat, had pinned him down on the floor and was yelling abuse that he'd never before heard himself utter. In the background he heard Gina screaming, pulling at his shoulders as Micky's face turned red, then blue, and his Adam's apple squashed like an overripe grape under Lenny's powerful thumbs.
Lenny knew he was about to choke Micky to death and yet he couldn't stop; Micky was the cause of all the trouble in everyone's lives and he assumed that whatever he wanted he could just take. Like he'd taken Terry on that job to Downey Wood. Like he'd taken his and Milo's share of the money. Like he'd taken a nice kid like Bella and basically made her his slave. Well, this was the end of the road for Micky Bryant. Someone had to put him away. And it might as well be me, Lenny thought as the last gasp of breath rattled in Micky's throat.