Backstreet Child (64 page)

The men backed slowly away to reveal a very gory sight. Sergei had a gaping head wound and his face had been pummelled till it looked like raw meat. His nose was broken and one eye was shut tight. He was lying in a heap not making any sound. Billy staggered over and looked down at him.

Just then one of the workers, a tall dark man, threw a bucket of slops over the huge sergeant and he groaned and stirred.

‘I want to thank you for showing us the way,’ the worker said in perfect English. ‘That animal has been bullying us for too long. This should have been done long ago.’

Billy looked surprised and the tall stranger smiled, showing a set of perfect teeth. ‘My name is Antonio Morelli. I am an Italian prisoner-of-war,’ he said. ‘I am Catholic and would not stand by and see your war memorial be taken from this place. We had already made our plans. You helped us get started.’

Billy shook the Italian warmly by the hand. ‘Will ’e cause yer any trouble when ’e comes round?’ he asked.

The tall man smiled as he shook his head. ‘He’s already finished.’ He turned to his fellow workers. ‘We stay together from now on, is that right?’

Blank faces stared at him and he repeated his question in a foreign tongue. The men suddenly nodded their heads and made threatening gestures to the groaning Sergei.

‘You can feel sure that we are now all of the same mind,’ the Italian said to Billy, extending his hand once more. ‘Maybe when this terrible war is over I will come and see your memorial stone in the new building, eh?’

Billy walked home feeling exhausted but very happy. Just like old times, he thought.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Rachel sat with Tony on the hilly slope overlooking the River Thames in Greenwich Park. It was a warm Saturday, the first weekend following the invasion of Europe, and the two lovers felt serenely happy as they watched a lone tramper steaming upriver. Rachel moved her arms and stretched out on the cool grass, her eyes following the progress of a wispy cloud high in the blue sky.

‘A penny fer yer thoughts,’ Tony said as he turned on his side and stared down at her.

Rachel sighed. ‘I was just finkin’ ’ow lovely an’ peaceful it is ’ere, an’ across the Channel there’s terrible fightin’ goin’ on,’ she said quietly.

Tony nodded and pulled a blade of grass from his mouth. ‘It’as ter be if this war’s gonna be ended,’ he replied.

Rachel sat up quickly and looked at him. ‘Are yer sure yer won’t ’ave ter go, Tony?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I couldn’t bear ter know yer was in more fightin’.’

Tony shook his head firmly. ‘I already told yer, Rachel, I’m finished wiv fightin’,’ he answered. ‘They reckon we’ve done our share. That’s why the regiment was sent ’ome. Oh, it’ll go off out again, but it’ll be wiv new recruits. Those of us who saw it out are bein’ moved around. I’m goin’ ter be involved in trainin’ the new lads who are comin’ in. They can gain from our experiences.’

Rachel sighed and sprawled out again on the grass. ‘I want us ter get married soon as we can, Tony,’ she said, looking up into his dark eyes.

‘I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anyfing,’ he replied, bending down gently to kiss her slightly parted lips.

‘We’ll be very ’appy, won’t we?’ she asked him with a note of anxiety in her voice.

‘I never doubt it fer a second,’ he reassured her, smiling. ‘Not fer one tiny second.’

Rachel sat up again and took his hand in hers. ‘When the war’s ended, will yer sell that property?’ she asked.

‘I’ll go an’ see that firm o’ solicitors. They’ll advise me,’ he replied. ‘I’ll need ter sell if we’re gonna start up in business.’

‘Promise me one fing,’ Rachel said, looking down at their clasped hands. ‘Promise me yer’ll not let the money change yer.’

Tony breathed deeply and pulled her to him. ‘Look, Rachel. It’s only money. There’s no terrible curse to it, if that’s what’s worryin’ yer. It won’t change me, I promise.’

‘’Ope ter die?’

‘’Ope ter die.’

Rachel moved closer, and, as he slipped his arms round her, she tilted her head to one side, begging a kiss. His answering caress reassured her more than his promise ever could, and when they parted she smiled at him. ‘I love yer so much, Tony,’ she sighed. ‘I want us ter start off right, that’s all.’

Tony sat up straight and clasped his hands round his knees. ‘Now listen ter me,’ he said firmly. ‘I care about that inheritance. It means only one fing, as far as I’m concerned. A good start out. We’d be just as ’appy wiv or wivout it.’ Besides, we can always go an’ see Nora.’

‘Nora?’

‘Yeah, Nora Flynne. Yer remember me tellin’ yer what the old lady said ter me on the day I went ter the readin’ o’ the will?’

Rachel nodded. ‘Yeah, that was strange. I wonder what dark secret she’s carryin’ around wiv ’er.’

Tony shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, we can always find out, if we need to,’ he replied.

Rachel suddenly felt afraid and she turned to the young soldier. ‘Hold me tight, Tony,’ she said.

The clouds were slowly gathering as the two young lovers walked from the park into the bustling thoroughfare, and when they were seated on the tram for the trip back to Bermondsey, Rachel gripped Tony’s hand tightly. ‘Everyfing seems so good for us, I just feel frightened that somefing’ll come up ter spoil it all,’ she said anxiously.

Tony smiled as he looked at her frowning face. ‘Listen. I’m wiv yer fer two ’ole weeks. Then I’ll be gettin’ plenty o’ leave. I can always slip over ter Lincoln ter see yer,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We don’t ’ave ter be parted fer very long. I wouldn’t let nuffink come between us an’ spoil what we’ve got. Now take that worried look off yer face.’

Rachel leaned her body against his, and he rubbed her arm fondly. ‘Feeling better now?’ he asked.

She nodded, but at the back of her mind she still felt afraid.

Across London, the sorry figure of Bella Galloway sat huddled in her untidy sitting room. It was in darkness, the curtains drawn to shut out the bright sunlight as she rocked to and fro in her chair. That very morning she had finally summoned the courage to confront her husband with her suspicions and he had reacted very violently. He had not been able to deny his involvement with Peggy Harrison after what she had discovered, but Bella had paid a hard price for it.

The previous evening, Frank’s lodge had had their regular meeting, and after Frank had left, supposedly to attend the function, Bella had dialled the lodge’s number to say that she needed to talk to him as an emergency had come up. The answer she got did not unduly surprise her. Frank was not there; he had resigned from the order six months previously.

Bella removed the damp flannel from her bruised and swollen face and got up painfully from the chair. Her ribs were hurting and she decided there and then to phone Alan Wichello, the bookmaker. He would know what to do, she thought to herself.

One hour later she answered a knock at the door and let in a heavily built man in a smart pinstripe suit. He was shocked to see the bruising on her face.

‘Frank?’ he asked.

Bella nodded and motioned towards the drinks cabinet. ‘Help yourself, Alan, and you can do one for me while you’re there.’

‘You should see a doctor,’ he advised as he poured himself a large Scotch.

‘I’ll be all right presently, Alan,’ she replied, holding her midriff as she sat down painfully in her chair.

‘Presently nothing,’ he said sharply. ‘You could have broken ribs.’

‘Frank was like an animal,’ she said, starting to sob. ‘I’ve never seen him so incensed.’

Alan passed over her drink and sat down facing her. ‘Tell me about it,’ he urged her as he sipped his Scotch.

Bella dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘Frank’s having an affair,’ she began. ‘Last night he told me he was going to a masonic meeting but I found out he’d resigned months ago.’

‘So you checked up on him?’ Alan queried, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Bella looked up sharply. ‘And why not? I gave up my career for that man and that’s how he’s treated me,’ she sobbed.

Alan smiled cynically. ‘So you confronted him and he turned nasty. Well, let’s face it, Bella, you’ve hardly been a model wife yourself,’ he said, staring down at his drink. ‘No one could accuse you of being a paragon of virtue.’

Bella looked up at him, her eye-liner smeared and her bruised face reddening with anger. ‘I’ve not been in the habit of sharing my bed with every man I’ve known,’ she said sharply. ‘You were different. What you and I had was special.’

Alan raised his hand to stop her. ‘All right, I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘Frank’s gone over the top this time, and I’m foreclosing on his debt. It was only because of you I held back, but he’s never understood that I’m answerable too. I can’t go on making excuses for the man.’

‘You can do what you want as far as I’m concerned,’ Bella replied. ‘I’ve had enough. He was like a madman this morning. I thought he was going to kill me.’

Alan twirled the drink round in his glass. ‘He’s not been violent before, has he?’ he asked.

Bella shook her head. ‘It’s all been building up,’ she told him. ‘That will his father left was the start of it all and now there’s this.’

Alan took the copy of the
South London Press
from her and looked at the picture of two smiling young people in uniform. ‘So that’s the grandson, and his fiancée. I can see why Frank got upset. The amalgamation wouldn’t sit easy with him, would it?’

‘He threw that in my face this morning,’ Bella said.

Alan Wichello’s expression hardened. ‘I’m out of patience, Bella,’ he said, a resolute edge to his voice. ‘Frank’s got to pay his debts. I can’t stall any longer. I’m going to the yard to collect, and my associates won’t stand for any more excuses. It’s a lot of money owing, and there’s the interest as well.’

‘After what he did to me this morning, you’re welcome to him,’ Bella replied, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I’m going to leave this house before he gets home tonight. That’s if he does come home.’

The bookmaker got up and put down his empty glass on the coffee table. ‘I’ll be in touch later, Bella. Send me your new address,’ he said as he buttoned up his coat.

As soon as he had left, Bella began to pack, and one hour later she was stepping into a taxi. Her swollen eyes were hidden behind dark glasses and she felt breathless as she hauled her light travelling bag in with her. It had been a mistake leaving the tour, she thought regretfully. She had lost touch with all her old friends and colleagues. New faces were on the scene now, younger, pretty faces who were carving their own niches. Well, she was not done for, not by a long chalk, she vowed. They would once again sit up and take notice of Bella Ford. She would have the audiences eating out of her hand, once she got the break she needed. To hell with Frank Galloway. He could rot in that tatty little business, if he managed to keep hold of it after Alan Wichello and his cronies took their pound of flesh.

‘Where to, lady?’ the taxi driver asked.

‘Shaftesbury Avenue, and hurry,’ Bella told him. ‘I’m late already. I’m auditioning for a West End show.’

The taxi driver hid a smile. Another suburban housewife with visions of grandeur, he said to himself.

Frank Galloway was feeling ill as he discussed business problems with his yard manager. His head was pounding and he felt dizzy. It was hard to concentrate his mind on matters in hand, and the manager was waiting for a reply.

‘I suppose we could subcontract,’ Thomas Marks suggested, ‘but it’d be costly.’

‘No. Certainly not,’ Frank said quickly with irritation. ‘We’ll switch the journeys. Put Baker on the machinery and Peters can do the rum load.’

‘Peters?’ the manager queried.

Frank stroked his forehead. ‘Sorry, I mean Taylor,’ he said quickly.

The manager looked at his boss with concern. The man’s heading for a nervous breakdown, he thought. Peters left more than six months ago, and Baker’s vehicle was not suitable for the heavy machinery contract. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do, Mr Galloway,’ he said helpfully. ‘If you pardon me saying, I think you should go home for the day. You look rather tired.’

Frank shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no. There’s work to be done. Now let’s get on to that garage again. They can’t expect us to have two vehicles off the road for three weeks. A cylinder head, you say?’

‘No, a stripped flywheel,’ the manager corrected him.

‘What’s wrong with the other vehicle?’ Frank asked for the third time.

‘A cracked block,’ Marks replied. ‘That’s the three-week job.’

‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Frank said, suddenly holding the top of his head as a searing pain caught him.

The manager went about his task of rearranging the contract schedules, trying to appear calm despite the volatile atmosphere in the transport office, and when he glanced through the window and saw the well-dressed figure walking into the yard, he got up quickly from his seat and went outside, glad of the chance for a breath of fresh air.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said pleasantly.

Alan Wichello shook his head slowly and turned to face the two heavyweight figures who sauntered up behind him. ‘Remember now, we must be civilised,’ he told them with a smile.