Avalanche of Daisies (53 page)

He was horrified. ‘Thass worth money!' he cried. ‘Thass over twenty pounds worth of ring.'

But she didn't care about twenty pounds. She was cleaning him out of the house, removing every sign of his obnoxious presence, quick and strong and unstoppable, like an avalanche. First, three of the tins, crashing down one after the other, then the box of nylons, which sprang open in mid-air and distributed its contents as it fell.

It was wonderfully dramatic. The long stockings were lifted by the breeze and drifted down slowly and gracefully, turning in the air like silken pennants, landing gently all over the garden, on the lawn, on the path, on every shrub and plant, draped and curled like long buff ribbons.

Mrs Connelly, watching and listening at her kitchen
door, was quite taken with them. ‘Will you look at that now,' she said to her husband. ‘There must be hondreds and hondreds of the things.'

‘He
is
a spiv,' Mr Connelly observed. ‘She's right about that. If you ask me, those are stolen goods, so they are. I don' wonder she's shoutin' at him. He's a bad lot.'

Upstairs in the Wilkins' kitchen, Barbara was hurling tins again, throwing them from the window with a bold overarm swing, like a bowler.

‘For God's sake!' Vic begged. ‘What if they land on the ring? You could smash it to bits.'

She didn't care. ‘You come here', she said, ‘puttin' my family at risk, insultin' my husband. You wanna think yourself lucky I hain't a-throwing you out the window an' all.'

‘All right, all right,' he said, backing to the door. ‘I'm going. You win. Onny don't throw any more tins or you'll do me a mischief.'

She picked up another one and brandished it at him. ‘Good!' she said, eyes blazing. ‘I hope I do!'

At which, recognising total defeat, he grabbed his carpet bag and ran, precipitating down the stairs, hurtling into the kitchen.

The funny old woman who'd let him in was standing by the door. ‘Just off!' he said. ‘Something to find in your garden. Fell out the window. You don't mind if I go an' look, do you?'

She made a grimace at him. ‘I don't know about that, at all, at all.' But he was already out of the house and down on his hands and knees, grovelling about in the flower beds. He
had
to find it. Had to. He scoured the little garden, gathering the nylons, cramming the dented tins into his carpet bag, poring over every plant and combing every shrub with tense frantic fingers. Come on! Come on! It must be here!

He was aware that the old biddy and her husband were watching him from the doorway and that there
were curious faces peering out of most of the upstairs windows but he couldn't stop, even though he knew he was making an exhibition of himself. Twenty pounds was twenty pounds. And suddenly there it was, flashing fire among the wallflowers. Thank God for that! He picked it up, examined it carefully, polished it on his handkerchief, his legs suddenly weak with relief.

Heavy footsteps on the path behind him. The old feller? Mr Wilkins? Time to be off whoever it was. ‘I'm just going,' he promised. And turned his head to find himself looking straight into Tiffany's long sardonic face. The shock sent him into a panic, his thoughts skittering in all directions like shards of broken glass. Christ Almighty! How did he get here? Has he come from the Skibbereen? Or is he on his own? What the hell am I going to do?

‘Quite right, sunshine,' Tiffany said, smiling sourly at him. ‘Never a truer word. You're coming with me. An' we'll have that nice little sparkler fer starters.'

Victor struggled to control himself and the situation. ‘That's mine,' he said, speaking softly, mindful of the listeners. ‘Legit.'

Tiffany didn't bother to argue, although he spoke quietly too, his words hissing. ‘That's ours. Illegit,' he said. ‘Hand it over. Skibber's orders.'

Victor's heart sank to the depths, a cold stone. ‘He hain't here, is he?'

‘What d'you think?' Tiffany sneered.

Vic's mind was still spinning, but now he was searching for an escape, remembering the Skibbereen's warning. ‘
See if you can't find what I want. If you wanna stay healthy!'
He tried wheedling. ‘Look, Tiff. Give us a break, eh. I know I should have passed it over but it's only the one. I mean to say, look at it this way. You could take it as part of my cut. I mean to say, I've earned it.'

Tiffany was as implacable as Spitfire had been. He held out his palm. ‘Give!' he said.

‘No God damn it,' Vic said. ‘I won't. I nicked the thing. That's mine.'

‘Tell that to the Skibbereen,' Tiffany mocked. ‘He'll be very pleased to hear that. I
don't
think! An' what's all this stuff?' He seized the carpet bag and pulled it open.

The thought of what the Skibbereen would do to him was furring Vic's mind, but he dredged up enough energy to fight. ‘Thass mine, you silly bugger. Leave off.'

‘That's ours!' Tiffany said, and he suddenly seized Vic by the scruff of the neck and began to haul him down the path towards the house. For a few undignified seconds they struggled like wild things, Tiffany straining forward, Vic pulling away, red in the face and aiming kicks and blows. Then Vic gave a great heave and managed to free himself. He pulled the bag away from Tiffany's hand and made a bolt for it, tearing down the garden and flinging himself at the wall. There was nothing in his mind now except the need to get away from the Skibbereen. But it was a waste of effort. As he pulled himself up the brickwork, clinging to the top of the wall, feet scrabbling, another mocking face grinned above him. Mog! Of all people. Climbing without being urged. Oh for Christ's sake! How many more has the Skibbereen sent?

‘Naughty, naughty!' Mog rebuked, and swinging a leg over the wall, he pushed Vic violently back into the garden and Tiffany's waiting clutch. Within seconds the struggle was over. They had his arms pinioned behind his back and were frogmarching him through the house and out into the street, dragging the carpet bag with them.

The watchers rushed from the back of the terrace to the front, eager not to miss a second, and Bob and Heather and Barbara followed them, Bob cheerfully enjoying Victor's come-uppance, Heather anxious about what the neighbours would think, Barbara caught
between emotions. She was still angry at the lies he'd told and glad to think that he was getting pushed around, but even so, he was still a North-Ender and she didn't want to see him injured.

By now and to Heather's chagrin, the entire street seemed to be involved, for the noise of the fight had gathered attention and besides, there were three huge black cars standing in a line by the pavement and nobody had ever seen three cars in the street before. Avid heads peered from the open windows, groups congregated on the pathways, the kids left their games to watch, as Vic was pushed along the pavement towards the Skibbereen's huge limousine. Even the postwoman was caught up in the drama. She'd been cycling slowly along the road from the opposite direction when the second car arrived, languidly delivering the afternoon post and looking forward to her tea, but now she stopped her bike and leant on the handlebars to enjoy the spectacle, intrigued by the sight of all those cars and by the fear on Victor's face.

Oh God! he was praying, give me a break. Let me find a way out. But his mind was full of hideous images, of being set on late at night, as he stepped out of a pub, dragged up some dark alley and beaten unconscious, or, worse, driven off here and now to be thrashed in the country where there was no one to help him.

By the time he reached the Skibbereen's open window, he was frozen with fear. His mouth dry, he tried to ingratiate himself. ‘Look,' he said. ‘I made a mistake. I admit it. I mean it could have happened to anyone.'

‘Not to me,' the Skibbereen said coldly and he leant forward to glare at his victim. ‘You got two minutes to hand those rings over and get out a' my sight. If you're still around after that, God help you!'

It was a reprieve. They were going to let him go. Wet-palmed with fear, he pulled the two other rings
from his pocket and put all three on the Skibbereen's palm. Then he ran, hearing the clunk of his tins as the carpet bag was slung into the Skibbereen's car, a buzz of voices from all those upstairs windows, a gust of horrible gloating laughter from Mog. Into his car and into gear, doing a three-point turn – very badly because his hands were slippery with sweat – but then away, watching his rear mirror, afraid of being followed.

His heart didn't steady until he'd been driving for some time. Then relief washed over him, making him feel quite weak. He'd got away, unhurt, scot-free. So OK, he'd got to move on and he was down to his last shilling, so OK they'd skinned him out, so OK Spitfire had given him a bollocking, but he still had contacts, people still needed food, there was still rationing and what's more he still had another case full of nylons in the boot. They'd do to get off the ground again. I'll make a fresh start, he promised himself, and then I'll come back and find Spitfire again. Now that his mind was working more easily he remembered that she'd said something about that soldier being missing. All right then, if he's missing she could be a free woman by the time I find her again. Oh I'm not beaten. Not by a long chalk.

Back in Childeric Road, it was so quiet that Heather could hear every sound in the street, from the blackbird sweet-singing in the garden to the happy chorus of their neighbours' voices.

Their next-door-neighbour was leaning across the hedge to question Mrs Connelly. ‘And what was all that about?'

‘Well that's seen
him
off and no mistake,' Bob said, stepping back from the window.

And at that, as if his voice had released her into action, Heather turned to catch her daughter-in-law in her arms, tearful with relief and admiration and affection. I was wrong about her, thank God. Quite, quite wrong. She's a good loyal wife. A good loving
loyal wife. ‘Oh Barbara!' she said. ‘My dear, dear girl! You were splendid back there!'

‘I meant every word of it,' Barbara told her, stepping back so that they could look at one another.

‘I know. I know.'

‘I put
Steve's
name down for that house,' Barbara said. ‘Steve's an' mine.' They had to be quite clear about that.

‘I know,' Heather said again. ‘I don't know why I ever thought you hadn't. I shouldn't have believed him for a second. Lying hound! Oh Barbara! I've been so wrong about you. I thought you were too young. I mean, I didn't think you could love him the way … And you did, all the time. So much!'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm so sorry for all the things I said.'

This time it was Barbara's turn to hug. ‘I know,' she said lovingly. ‘It's all right. Really.'

And at that Heather burst into tears, remembering that dreadful letter and wishing with all her heart that she hadn't written it. ‘I couldn't want for a better daughter-in-law,' she said. ‘And I'm not just saying that. I mean it. I can't get over the way you saw him off. You were splendid. Wasn't she splendid, Bob?'

But Bob didn't answer, although he'd been watching them both with yearning affection. ‘What's that noise?' he asked, turning his head towards the landing. There was an odd knocking sound coming from the kitchen, a rhythmic sound like someone using a wooden mallet.

Heather jumped out of Barbara's arms and gave a shriek. ‘It's the kettle.'

Which it was, burnt dry and filling the kitchen with tinny grey smoke. ‘Quick! Quick! Get some water in it.' But the water spat and hissed and ran straight out through the hole in the bottom. ‘Oh for heaven's sake!' She was so flustered that Bob and Barbara began to laugh and once they'd started they couldn't stop.

‘It's no laughing matter!' Heather said, laughing too, despite herself. ‘Look at the state of it!'

They were stupid with relief, chortling and chuckling until they were short of breath. They were making such a commotion that they didn't hear Mrs Connelly coming up the stairs.

‘It's only me, Mrs Wilkins dear,' she said, looking askance at the smoke. ‘Only this letter's come for Barbara an' I thought you'd want to see it.'

Everything else was forgotten at once, burnt kettles, diamond rings, fighting men, wicked lies and all. ‘It's Steve!' Barbara cried, recognising the writing. ‘Oh God! It's Steve! Give it to me! Give it to me!'

The excitement then, the trembling hands as the letter was opened, the tears as it was passed from hand to hand and read and re-read, its news being too good to be taken in at a single reading. ‘He's all right. He was took prisoner.' ‘Oh thank God for that!' The day was instantly and totally changed, their lives lifted, proportion restored, quarrels forgotten, Victor forgotten, all misery smoothed away. He was alive and they would see him again.

‘Oh thank God!' Heather said. ‘Just let him stay safe and well till it's all over. It can't be much longer.'

‘They'll give him leave, won't they,' Barbara hoped, green eyes shining.

Bob and Heather had no doubt about it. ‘Bound to.'

The thought of seeing him again was making Barbara breathless. ‘I wonder what he's doing now,' she said.

Steve and Dusty were sun-bathing, lying on their backs in a German orchard just outside Hamburg, tunics tossed aside, boots off, shirtsleeves rolled up as far as they would go, taking their ease as if the war were already over. As well it might be for all they knew, for good news was coming in with every bulletin. The Americans had captured Genoa. The Russians were in the outskirts of Berlin. Mussolini had been shot and hung up by the heels in a public square. There were rumours that Hitler was dead too. But there, in the orchard, it was simply and amazingly peaceful. There was no sound of gunfire even in the distance, no planes roaring across the sky, no snipers, no orders, no alarms, just a slight wind that ruffled the blossom in the apple trees so that pink and white petals dropped in a silken fall to dapple the weary faces and young brown arms below them.