Tara

  Tara

  Lesley Pearse

  Random House (2012)

  Tags: 1960s London

  * * *

  Synopsis

  In the East End, twelve-year-old Tara witnesses her villain of a father almost kill her mother. She forges a determination then and there to change her life. This is the story of three beautiful and talented women. Mabel, whose great love for a gambling man has brought her close to insanity; gentle Amy, who marries a man brutalised by war and failure; and Tara, who is hungry for success and life on her own terms. To have both, she must battle against the legacy these two women have left her, the deep prejudices and dangers of Whitechapel in the 1960s - with its gang leaders, rogues, market traders and dolly birds - and the passionate love she has had since girlhood for the charming wideboy and villain, Harry Collins.

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Tara

  Lesley Pearse was born in Rochester, Kent, but has lived in the West Country for the last thirty-two years. She has three daughters and a grandson. She is the bestselling author of fifteen novels, including Ellie, Georgia, Tarn, Camellia and Charity, all five of which are published by Arrow.

  Also by Lesley Pearse

  Georgia*

  Charity*

  Ellie*

  Camellia*

  Rosie

  Charlie

  Never Look Back

  Trust Me

  Father Unknown

  Till We Meet Again

  Remember Me

  Secrets

  A Lesser Evil

  Hope

  * Also available in Arrow Books

  Tara

  LESLEY PEARSE

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 978-1-4070-9937-8

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books 2007

  8 10 9

  Copyright © Lesley Pearse 1994

  Lesley Pearse has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 1994 by William Heinemann

  First published in Great Britain in paperback in 1995 by

  Manderin Paperbacks

  First published by Arrow Books in 1998

  Arrow Books

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

  London, SW1V 2SA

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:www.randomhouse.co uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-4070-9937-8

  Version 1.0

  In memory of Ralph Pearse, my father-in-law,

  one of nature's true gentlemen.

  It was Ralph who inspired me to use

  Chew Magna in Somerset, as a setting for

  part of the story. He was born and grew up there,

  and to all of us who loved him,

  he will always be there.

  Acknowledgements

  To Louise Moore, my editor, for her unfailing enthusiasm, wisdom and encouragement.

  To Darley Anderson, my agent, for believing in me.

  To Richard and Vivienne Flowers in the hopes they don't mind me creating an entirely fictitious history at the farm. To Margaret and Mike Barber for their memories of growing up in Chew Magna.

  Thank you to Dennis Spear for your invaluable reminiscences of village life. Tower Hamlets library for their help in my research, and Westminster Training and Development Association for letting me take a peek into their offices in Paradise Row.

  Apologies to Port Lympne for wandering round your grounds when you lay empty and unloved. One day I'll go back to see the tigers and gorillas.

  Last, but not least, thank you to James Kellow and Tony for teaching me to play poker.

  Chapter 1

  Whitechapel, London, 1960

  'Tell yer Dad I want the rent tonight. Or else!'

  Anne stopped in her tracks, shame staining her pale face. Her mouth dropped open like the cod on the fish stall, arms weighed down by two string bags full of end-of-the-day cheap meat and vegetables.

  'Dad must have forgotten,' she whispered.

  Sid Bullock threw back his head and cackled mirthlessly. The golden light from the stall's hurricane lamps caught him under the chin, giving his long bony face a sinister look.

  'Forgotten!' he roared, making people crane their necks to see what was going on. 'The only thing Bill MacDonald remembers these days is how to pour drink down his throat!'

  Whitechapel Road was always busy, but at five o'clock on an icy January Saturday it developed a manic, desperate air. Stallholders anxious to rid themselves of perishable goods bawled out inducements to buy. Buses disgorged passengers to swell the already heaving throng of last-minute shoppers. Acrid, throat-burning traffic fumes mingled with smells of fruit, raw meat, hamburgers and onions. Yet even amid all this noise and confusion, Bullock's cruel jibe managed to make at least a dozen heads turn.

  He might as well have announced it on the BBC. By the time the stalls were cleared and the rubbish swept up, it would be common knowledge that the MacDon-aids were in trouble again.

  Once she'd called this tall, skinny man Uncle Sid. He doled out free chips from his shop and sixpences for sweets as if he was a real relation. Now he only spoke when he wanted to get back at her father.

  'I'll remind him as soon as he gets in.' Anne wished she could melt into the rail of dresses behind her.

  'C'mon, Sid! Ain't you ashamed of pickin' on a kid?
' George's growling voice preceded his red face and plump body as he burst through a rail of jackets. 'If you've got a disagreement with MacDonald, pick it with 'im, not little Anne.'

  She was twelve going on thirteen, a skinny kid in a long-outgrown, threadbare green coat. Her red-gold hair hung in pigtails, huge amber eyes welled up with tears and her wide mouth was sore in the biting wind, a red gash across a white, strained face.

  Sid heard the veiled threat behind the jovial words and backed off.

  'Tell him I want it, before he pisses it away tonight,' he tossed over his shoulder, and slipped away through the crowd.

  'Bleedin' weasel!' George slid an arm round Anne's shoulder and drew her close to his thick sheepskin coat. 'Too scared to 'ave a go at yer dad, but don't mind ripping into a kid!'

  Anne didn't see herself as a kid. Her childhood had gone down the pan as soon as she became aware that her father was a drunk, wife-beater, a thief and a blackguard. But she appreciated George sticking up for her.

  'Got all yer shoppin'?' George bent down, enveloping her in his comforting smell of King George cigars, bacon sandwiches and a faint whiff of brandy. He took her cold hands in his and chafed them together. 'Anythin' you need 'elp wiv?'

  Anne loved George, not only for his kindness and his generosity, but for his outrageous appearance. With his bald head, port-wine coloured bulbous nose and quivering belly he would have looked comic even in conventional clothes, but George never did anything in half-measures. A Russian fur hat, a glimpse of brocade waistcoat beneath his sheepskin and a red and yellow spotted bow-tie was his usual working attire.

  George Collins was the top man in the market; a spieler who could sell anything to anyone and entertain them as they parted cheerfully with their cash. Master magician, juggler and clown, he could toss plates into the air and somehow land them neatly in straw-lined baskets without breaking one. He could find a half-crown behind a child's ear, sing a song, tap dance, insult his audience then two minutes later have them shrieking with laughter. But George wasn't just a sharp salesman. He sprinkled gold dust on people's lives, lifted their spirits and warmed their hearts, and Anne had wished more than once he was her father, not a mere pretend uncle.

  'I've got everything now.' She wanted to remain in the circle of his arm, but she remembered her mother and Paul were waiting. 'I'd better be going, Uncle George, Mum's not too good.'

  'That cough still?' There was no trace of teasing now, only concern in his watery blue eyes.

  Anne nodded. 'It's not getting any better, and she's so thin, too.'

  George patted Anne's shoulder and cleared his throat as if there were something he wanted to say but couldn't.

  'Go on home, sweetheart, make her some honey and lemon and put a dash of yer dad's whisky in it.'

  Anne looked over her shoulder as she reached the last stall, shifting her shopping to one hand. She raised the other in a wave, then blew him a kiss before slipping away into the darkness.

  It was the blown kiss that made George's eyes prickle. Somehow it summed up their relationship, the affection between them and the need to keep it hidden.

  Anne wasn't pretty. The combination of red-gold hair, white skin and huge amber eyes was fascinating enough to attract stares, but her shabby clothes and obvious neglect were all most people saw – a navy school skirt dangling beneath the coat, grey socks bunched round stick-thin ankles and chilblains on exposed wrists and knees.

  Yet George could see beyond the pre-adolescent gawkiness to what she could be. Those eyes like polished pebbles held a yearning for a better life. Right now her wide mouth was too big in her pale, pinched face, but in another two or three years it might tell a different story!

  George turned back to his stall piled high with china and fancy goods, suddenly chilled by a glimpse into the future. He noticed the filth underfoot, the tawdry cheap clothes on sale and the stink of poverty in the air.

  He should have been more forceful with Amy Mac-Donald all those years ago. Why hadn't he convinced her that a stepfather would be better for Anne and Paul than their natural one? Didn't it come down to cowardice at the end of the day, whatever excuses he offered himself at the time?

  Bill MacDonald had crushed Amy underfoot just like these cabbage leaves lying in the muck. He'd turned Paul into a cringing shadow, and who could blame Anne if she grew into womanhood with the idea that all men were drunken bullies? Now a tragedy was brewing in the family and he could no longer get close enough to prevent it.

  A couple of girls with headscarves over their curlers were checking out his boxes of glasses, chattering and giggling about a party planned for later. Across the aisle three Teddy boys lounged at the record stall. They nodded their greasy heads in time to 'Jail House Rock', tapped the toes of their brothel creepers and dragged deeply on cigarettes as they eyed up his customers.

  'Champagne glasses, is it, girls?' George recovered his composure. 'Invite me along and I'll make sure your party swings!'

  'You're too old for us, Georgie Porgie.' The petite dark one chucked him under the chin. 'But you can send along your 'Arry!'

  Anne noted the air of expectancy as she made her way home along White chapel Road. Saturday night was always special, there was a buzz in the air, a feeling that the grimmer side of life in the East End was held in suspension for a few hours.

  Girls darted out of hairdressers', dress-shop bags in their hands, hair lacquered in place for the night's dancing. Young women with loaded prams, older women staggering under the weight of the family shopping, all looked less drawn than usual. Men were coming home from work, dirt-smeared faces cheerful at the prospect of Saturday night down the pub and a day off on Sunday. Young men ran after packed buses, daringly leaping on to the open back platform, cigarettes nonchalantly dangling from their lips as they contemplated whether tonight they might meet their dream girl.

  Even the London Hospital across the road appeared to be waiting for the influx of casualties later tonight. Every one of its many windows sent a shaft of welcoming light out into the darkness. Soon the market would be packed up, hurricane lights taken down. A man would come and sweep away the squashed tomatoes, cabbage leaves and sweet papers. White chapel was too soot-ingrained, too shabby ever to be considered beautiful, but lit up by car headlights and bright shop windows it had a raw excitement that Anne loved.

  'Shakin' all over' by Johnny Kidd and the Pirates blasted from a cafe door as a girl breezed out, her full red skirt swirling over a froth of net can-can petticoats.

  'See you up the Empire,' she shouted back then, pulling a scarf over her beehive, she tottered on four-inch heels to the bus-stop.

  Anne paused for a moment, pretending to adjust the handles of her bags so she could peep in through the steamed-up window.

  Teddy boys in drape jackets played the pinball machine, girls only a couple of years older than her drank coffee and flirted. She noted their pencil skirts, tight sweaters and carefully made-up faces and felt a stab of envy at their gaiety, freedom and their knowledge of who and what they were.

  She wasn't a child. How could she be when she already knew that romance and happy-ever-after marriages existed only in films? Yet she couldn't think of herself as an adult, either, not when she couldn't find a way of protecting her mother and brother.

  A sense of isolation grew with each passing week. Her mother and Paul's dependence on her increased each time her father laid into them. She had no friends, school only meant laying herself open to ridicule because of her shabby clothes. Now even shopping involved running the gauntlet of prejudice and hostility.

  She hitched the two bags up into her arms for the last dash past Sid's fish and chip shop. Golden light spilled out on to the pavement, accompanied by tantalising smells that made her stomach contract with hunger. The black and white tiled floor, gleaming steel fryer, even the jars of pickled onions and bottles of pop arranged in neat rows were a sharp reminder of what her mother called 'Top Show'.

  Once she opened that door ne
xt to the shop, the stench of frying food and mildew would engulf her, taking away her appetite. If Sid's customers smelled this, saw the filth in his kitchen or the maggot-ridden dustbins out in the yard, they wouldn't be quite so enthusiastic about his rock salmon.

  Anne turned the key in the lock and slipped in hurriedly. She didn't put the light on as it was better not to see the bare wood stairs, wallpaper stained and rubbed away by her father's shoulders. The splatters of dried blood here and there testified to his explosive temperament, the neglect proved how little he valued his family.

  The landing light came on as Anne reached the half-way point, and her mother looked anxiously down.

  'Did you manage to get everything?'

  Amy's voice was as small and gentle as herself. From a distance they could have been sisters just a year or two apart. They shared the same slender build, height and dainty features, though Amy's hair was pure blonde compared with Anne's red gold. But closer inspection revealed the ravages not only of time but of hardship and disappointment.

  Anne's colouring grabbed the eye, there was a boldness in her stance and expression which couldn't have come from her mother. Amy's powder blue eyes seemed to reflect her feelings of hopelessness, her pinched face, stooped shoulders and lank hair spoke not only of poor health but a woman who had given up considering herself important.

  Anne could barely feel her fingers or toes, her lips were chapped from the raw wind, but she managed a bright smile to reassure her mother she hadn't minded being a scavenger at the close of the market.

  'I got half a shoulder of lamb, some bacon, sausages and all the veg. Queenie gave us some bananas, too, she said to put them in some custard right away.'

  Amy's hands reached to take the bags from her daughter, but she winced with the effort.

  'It's all right, Mum.' Anne dismissed her help and bounded up the last few stairs. 'You sit down and rest. I'll make the tea.'

  Anne had learned from her mother how to make the best of things. But, unlike her, she resented the necessity.