Fur Coat, No Knickers, Page 2

  The only time during the past year that Stanley’s spirits had been raised had been last March. It was just after Hitler had taken control of Austria, and the Home Secretary, Sir Samuel Hoare, had broadcast an appeal for at least a million men and women to enrol in a Civil Defence Service. Fewer than half that number had responded to the call.

  Stanley Slater had been one of the first volunteers. He had jumped at the chance to be doing something, anything, rather than roaming aimlessly around the streets in search of non-existent work, and for a while he had regained a little of his self-respect. But gradually, as the prospect of war faded, so did Stanley’s enthusiasm, and within a few months he had chucked it in, declaring the whole exercise to be a waste of time.

  As the double-decker bus trundled through Cambridge Heath and down into Well Street, Grace absent-mindedly twisted the small ruby ring Stanley had so lovingly placed on her finger last year, and wondered how long it would be before a gold band accompanied it. At twenty-two, she longed to be married and have children, but Stanley had made it plain there would be no wedding until he found another job. Grace had pleaded in vain for him to let her support them both for the time being. The last time she had brought up the subject, Stanley had walked off in a rage. There was just no way he would countenance being supported by a woman – not even if that woman was his wife.

  As the bus came to a sudden, jerking stop, Grace’s eyes flew open, then, seeing they had arrived at her stop, she gathered up her belongings and nudged Stanley in the ribs, saying lightly, ‘It’s our stop, Stanley.’

  Still deep in conversation with his friend, Stanley glanced up at Grace, looked out of the taped window, then frowned in annoyance.

  ‘Oh, yeah, so it is.’ Reluctantly getting to his feet, he looked at the earnest young man facing him and said, ‘Sorry, Bert. This is where I get off.’

  Bert Harris, his face filled with disappointment, answered a shade too brightly. ‘Yeah, all right, Stan. It was nice seeing you again. Look after yourself, mate.’

  As Stanley stood up to let Grace pass, his friend clutched at his arm and in a lowered voice muttered, ‘Let me know if you change your mind, Stan. ’Cos to be honest, I don’t know what else there’s left for the likes of us, only I ain’t too keen on going on me own – know what I mean, mate?’

  Fully awake now, Grace caught the man’s faint words, her head coming up and round to face Stanley, and when she saw the look of guilt in the brown eyes, her stomach gave a nervous lurch of fear.

  Never having had the ability to assume a poker face, Stanley looked away from Grace’s questioning gaze and said in a voice that came out a shade too loudly, ‘Yeah, course I’ll keep in touch, mate. Keep your chin up, eh?’

  Once on the pavement, Stanley stared after the bus, then down at his feet, before glancing furtively at Grace, and the look in her blue eyes caused him to step back a pace. Quickly regaining some of his assurance, Stanley hitched back his shoulders and blustered, ‘That was Bert Harris. He worked with me at Stonbridge’s, and got the push the same time as me. Only it was worse for him – the silly sod got married young, an’ now he’s got a wife and two kids to keep, poor bugger. At least I’ve only got meself to worry about, thank Gawd…’

  The thoughtless, casual words were like a blow to Grace’s heart, but she kept her feelings in check. There was something far more important troubling her at this moment than Stanley’s insensitivity.

  ‘Never mind all that,’ she said, noting the irritability in her voice and not caring how she sounded. ‘I heard what your friend said as we got off the bus. You’re thinking about joining up again, aren’t you?’ Grace stared hard at her fiancé, her gaze unflinching, and when Stan’s face began to colour and his eyes refused to meet hers, Grace moaned, ‘Oh, Stan! You promised you’d wait a bit longer. You promised!’ And when Stanley bit down on his lower lip and shook his head, Grace suddenly felt as if all the strength had drained from her body, and she wondered why she continued to struggle against the inevitable.

  Without waiting for an answer, Grace walked off, her troubled thoughts tumbling around her tired mind.

  The idea of joining the Services wasn’t a new one, and Grace could understand how a man like Stanley would be tempted into uniform, if only for the security of a regular wage and the return of self-respect. Yet he had promised not to do anything without talking it over with her first. Signing up had always been the final option, a step to be taken when all other avenues had been crossed. Obviously, if the unthinkable happened and war was declared, then Stanley would have no choice. But to join up just to get off the dole was, to Grace’s mind, preposterous.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Grace. Look… look, will you wait a minute…?’ Stanley was by her side, holding her arm, his eyes pleading with her to understand. ‘I ain’t gone behind your back, love. Honest I ain’t! I wouldn’t do that to you, Grace, an’ you should know me better than to think that… But talking to Bert an’ hearing him go on about joining up… Well, it got me thinking again, ’cos, like he said, there’s nothing for the likes of us as far as jobs are concerned. So…’ He let go of Grace’s arm and shrugged dejectedly. ‘Can’t we at least talk about it, love? I mean… well, it don’t do no harm to talk, does it?’

  Such was the pathos in his eyes and voice that Grace felt her eyes sting with unshed tears and felt an unexpected urge to stamp her feet like a petulant child. Her mind was telling her she was overtired and to wait until she was in a better frame of mind before continuing this conversation. Instead she slapped at the strong hand holding her arm, snapping angrily, ‘Let go of me, Stan. I don’t want to talk about this right now, all right! To be honest, I don’t want to talk to you at all. So if you don’t mind, I’ll get off home on my own, OK?

  Yet it wasn’t the controlled fury in Grace’s voice that brought Stanley’s head jerking back on his neck, but what he perceived as the arrogance of her words, and suddenly his own anger rose to meet Grace’s.

  Thrusting his face towards hers, he growled, ‘Now look here, Gracie. It’s all very well for you to lay down the law, but it’s me that’s out of work. What d’yer know about it anyway! It’s all right for you with your posh job and regular wage, an’ there’s me with me arse practically hanging out of me trousers an’…’ For a moment Stanley thought Grace was about to strike him, and quickly stepped back a pace, while at the same time hurriedly changing tact. Adopting a more conciliatory tone, Stanley now chided gently, ‘Oh, now, Gracie, I didn’t mean that. You know how me mouth flaps when I’m in a temper… Oh, come here, you silly cow…’ he murmured with an air of resignation as he went to put an arm around her rigid shoulders.

  But Grace was having none of it, refusing to be placated like a small child who has been unfairly scolded then cuddled by a repentant mother.

  ‘Don’t you silly cow me, Stanley Slater!’ she cried loudly, not caring who heard her. ‘And don’t you try and shut me up…’ she warned as Stanley made another awkward, fumbling move towards her.

  Mortified at being shown up in public, Stanley’s face flushed a dull brick red, while his eyes flickered up and down the street in embarrassment as curious passers-by stared in amusement at the young couple at odds on the pavement.

  ‘Look, you’re making a fool of yourself, Grace,’ Stanley hissed between clenched teeth.

  ‘Making a fool of you, more like,’ Grace hissed back at him, knowing full well Stanley’s hatred of any form of emotion in public. ‘Well, it doesn’t bother me one bit, and if you don’t like it, you can lump it.’ With that she stormed off down the road, leaving a very angry and humiliated Stanley staring after her.

  A shabbily dressed man passed by, his grimy thumb gesturing after the retreating figure.

  ‘Women, eh, mate! Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em. But I’d like to bleeding well try, given half the chance.’ With a loud cackle of laughter the man moved on.

  After a few minutes, Stanley, his face crestfallen, his shoulders hunched and his
hands thrust deep into the linings of his only good pair of trousers, ambled slowly in the direction Grace had taken.

  Chapter Two

  As Grace turned the corner into Lester Road she stopped for a minute to compose herself. The last thing she needed was for one of her neighbours to see her so upset, for if anyone showed her any form of kindness or concern right now, she’d burst into tears. Not that she knew any of her neighbours that well. In fact, apart from the usual pleasantries when meeting, the Donnelly family remained apart from the other residents in the street. The reason for this went back years to the time of Grace’s grandfather, Patrick Donnelly.

  Taking a large white handkerchief from her bag, Grace sniffed loudly, her eyes travelling the length of the road to where her home stood proudly at the top of the street, and as always the sight of the three-storey red-bricked house filled her with security. It also served to remind her that the man who had rebuilt the magnificent Georgian house was no longer with her.

  ‘Oh, Grandad,’ she whispered softly, ‘I don’t half miss you.’ And as always when remembering the larger-than-life Irishman, who had once been at the centre of her world, Grace saw him laughing at her, playing with her, and often, when her parents were busy, comforting her when she was upset. Like now.

  Dabbing at her eyes, Grace looked down the street to see if she was being observed, but apart from a group of children playing marbles in the middle of the road, the street was deserted. And as her eyes lifted her glance settled on the end house: her home, the house known locally as ‘Paddy’s Castle’.

  Tired, angry and tearful, and stalling for time before going home, Grace forced herself to push down the unpleasant row she’d just had with Stanley and let her mind wander back in time to relive and draw comfort from the legend surrounding her late grandfather. Hoping that by doing so, she would shake off the foul mood that was presently gripping her.

  The story was well known locally, although, as with many tales, the tale of the Irishman’s achievements had received its fair share of embellishment down the years.

  It was back in 1874 that the twenty-year-old Patrick Donnelly had arrived on a boat from Ireland. He was just one of many fleeing from a poverty-racked country in the hope of a better life in England. But Patrick had had an advantage over his fellow countrymen, for in his pockets Patrick had held the princely sum of fifty-five pounds, a fortune in those hard-pressed times, and a much-cherished pack of playing cards; cards that he had had in his possession from the age of six, when he had entertained friends and family with parlour tricks, amazing all on-lookers with a dexterity and skill never before seen in one so young. And in the summer evenings when his mother was busy elsewhere, his out-of-work father, Sean Donnelly, had secretly taught his only son a variety of card games, always with one eye out for his wife, a devout Catholic, who would have severely disapproved of her little boy being taught to gamble.

  When Patrick was twelve, his father contracted tuberculosis and died. His mother, who had nursed her husband throughout the terrifying disease, and already worn out with numerous miscarriages, followed him to a pauper’s grave barely a week later, leaving a stunned and bereaved Patrick to fend for himself. Neighbours tried to help the orphaned boy, but with barely enough money to keep themselves alive, Patrick had eventually found himself on the streets. Always a resourceful boy, he had managed to live off his wits. And if sometimes he had been forced into petty thieving, he had assuaged his conscience by telling himself it was necessary to survive.

  He was fifteen when he won his first few coppers playing cards, and from that day he had been on the constant lookout for bigger and better games.

  But big games meant big stakes, and inside knowledge of where such games could be found. For the next five years, Patrick frequented every pub and back-alley club in search of bigger games, putting by a shilling here and there, often starving himself to fund his dream – a stake in a big-time card school – and eventually his efforts paid off. A well-known runner for Dublin’s card schools had set Patrick up at a weekly game, charging the eager youth five shillings for his troubles, and with a dire warning to look out for himself. For as the man had explained, such gaming schools weren’t known for fair play, and cocky, inexperienced young fellows who thought themselves to be clever, could wind up in a back alley with their pockets empty and a knife in their back. But Patrick had waited too many years for such an opportunity to be easily frightened out of the chance to win some big money, and had ignored the warning.

  One night, only days after his twentieth birthday, Patrick, his heart thumping, his pulse racing, and with eight pounds in his pocket, walked jauntily down a flight of steps into a basement of a public house off O’Connell Street. After revealing his name and the name of the man who had sent him, Patrick was admitted into a small, smoky room that stank of whisky, cigars and body odour. A game was already in progress, and as Patrick waited nervously for it to conclude, he noted with some anxiety that the men were playing Twenty-Ones, a game Patrick wasn’t overly fond of, being more to do with luck than skill.

  Yet when he finally sat down at the green-baized table and felt the cards in his hands as he was dealt a hand of poker, he became more confident. Under the overhead glare of two bracket gas lamps, Patrick’s first game began with much amused banter from his elder companions, who were clearly looking forward to having some fun with the fresh-faced youngster, before clearing his pockets. And even when Patrick won the first game, the men remained confident, loudly congratulating him, while winking slyly at each other, as if to say, give the lad his bit of glory before we clean him out.

  Patrick lost the next two games, and then he started to win again. One hand after another went his way, while the pile of coins mounted at his elbow.

  The other men were no longer smiling, and when after four hours a weary Patrick tried to leave with his winnings, the thick-set man who had admitted him barred his way with such menace that Patrick, with sinking heart, realised for the first time he was in serious trouble. Recalling the runner’s words, Patrick continued to play, losing a few hands in order to placate his gambling companions, whose grim faces left the brash young man in no doubt that they weren’t going to let him walk away with their money. Fear had gripped Patrick’s tired mind and body, but he hadn’t battled through a life on the streets without learning some valuable rules of survival.

  As dawn broke, Patrick had risen and, ignoring the veiled threats from his companions, had transferred his winnings to the chamois pouch he had brought his stake in. Realising that there would likely be somebody waiting outside in the street ready to accost him on his way home, Patrick nevertheless made a great show of bravado as he slid the pile of coins into the chamois pouch and placed it with studied deliberation into the inside pocket of his jacket. Not a word was spoken as he left the airless room; none was needed, for the men’s brutal expressions and shifty glances spoke volumes.

  Once outside Patrick swiftly ran down the adjoining alley he had spied earlier, hiding himself from the view of any passing stranger who might have challenged him. A few minutes later he was heading for the main road, all of his senses alert for danger. Even so, when the two shadowy shapes leapt out on him he was taken off-guard, and although he was fit and strong, he was no match for his assailants. Thick hobnail boots, similar to the ones he was wearing, thudded into his body, forcing him to his knees. Then his head seemed to split open as another vicious blow caught him on the side of the neck. Stunned and bruised, Patrick fell to the ground in agony as the two men ran off. His head pounding and every bone in his body bruised, he had the desire to remain where he was, but a nagging voice in his thumping head urged him upwards. He had maybe ten minutes, fifteen at the most before the men returned.

  Dragging himself forward, Patrick staggered to the end of the alley and from there to his lodging room twenty minutes’ walk from O’Connell Street. When at last he reached the comparative safety of his room, he swiftly bolted the flimsy door and listened for any sound
before sinking gingerly on to the tattered sheets. Then he did an amazing thing: he smiled, then gave a soft chuckle, stopped from laughing out loud only by his swollen, battered face. Then he had carefully pulled off his heavy boots, his tom lips spreading into a grimace of triumph as he turned first one thick heel then the other, revealing a false bottom in both. The cavities were large enough to hold most of his winnings, the rest Patrick had hidden in a concealed pocket sewn inside the wide collar of his jacket. As he had hoped, his assailants had been intent only on the chamois pouch, which he had taken such trouble in displaying.

  His carefully laid plans had been the biggest gamble of his life – and it had paid off handsomely. As he packed his meagre possessions into a battered suitcase, Patrick visualised the men’s faces when they had emptied the chamois pouch of its pile of halfpennies and farthings and smiled savagely. It was no more than they, and men like them, deserved. It would have been different if Patrick had cheated them but he had won fair and square.

  Stopping only long enough to count his winnings, Patrick had left Dublin without a backward glance. This too had been a part of his grand plan, for the men whose money he now held weren’t the type to allow any man to humiliate them on such a grand scale, let alone a fresh-faced youth still wet behind the ears. Such men had reputations to uphold, reputations that could be maintained only by setting a bloody example of anyone brave – or stupid – enough to imagine they could take them on and walk away unscathed. And Patrick would be easy to find – the runner who had introduced him to the game knew where he lived.

  Three days later Patrick had arrived in England, and like many before him, he had headed for the East End of London, where for the next two years he had continued to live the same lifestyle, until the night he had entered into a card game with three drunken toffs slumming it in an East End pub in Bethnal Green.