Goodnight Lady
Martina Cole
GOODNIGHT LADY
MARTINA COLE
headline
www.headline.co.uk
Copyright © 1994 Martina Cole
The right of Martina Cole to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law,
this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing
of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production,
in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the
Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008
All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
eISBN : 978 0 7553 5075 9
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette Livre UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachettelivre.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
BOOK ONE
Prologue 1989
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
BOOK TWO - 1925
Chapter Ten - 1925
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
BOOK THREE - 1947
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
BOOK FOUR - 1968
Chapter Forty-one - 1968
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty - 1970
EPILOGUE
Martina Cole is the No. 1 bestselling author of eleven hugely successful novels. Her most recent novel, The Graft, was No. 1 on the Sunday Times hardback bestseller list for eleven weeks, as well as a Sunday Times No. 1 bestseller in paperback, and The Know was selected by Channel 4’s Richard & Judy as one of the Top Ten Best Reads of 2003. Maura’s Game and Faceless both shot straight to No. 1 on the Sunday Times bestseller lists and total sales of Martina’s novels now exceed four million copies. Dangerous Lady and The Jump have gone on to become hugely popular TV drama series and several of her other novels are in production for TV Martina Cole has a son and daughter, and she lives in Essex.
Praise for Martina Cole’s bestsellers:
‘Martina Cole pulls no punches, writes as she sees it, refuses to patronise or condescend to either her characters or fans ... And meanwhile sells more books than almost any other crime writer in the country’ Independent on Sunday
‘Distinctive and powerfully written fiction’ The Times
‘Intensely readable’ Guardian
‘Martina Cole again explores the shady criminal underworld, a setting she is fast making her own’ Sunday Express
‘The stuff of legend ... It’s vicious, nasty and utterly compelling’ Mirror
‘Set to be another winner’ Woman’s Weekly
For my sisters, Maura and Loretta. We’ve held each other’s hands, wiped each other’s tears, supported each other, laughed together even when our world had collapsed around us and enjoyed every second of it. We are grown women now, but still at heart, we’re the Whiteside girls.
Remembering Jonathan Peake and Eric Lane, with love always.
Many thanks to Marlene Moore for all her help and information on Berwick Manor.
BOOK ONE
‘When I was a child, I spake as a child,
I understood as a child,
I thought as a child’
- Corinthians
‘The children of perdition are oft’times made instruments even of the greatest work’
Ben Jonson, 1637-1673
Prologue 1989
The woman in the bed was impossibly old. Her face, still showing subtle traces of a former beauty, was a mass of criss-cross lines. The thick powder she wore had cracked and flaked in the heat of the room. The red slash of her mouth was sunken and bent, emphasising her baggy jowls.
Two things were, however, very much alive: her eyes, still a startling green, despite the yellowing of her whites, and her hair. The thick redness seemed to crackle on the shrunken head, falling across bony shoulders in a shower of electric waves. It was this, and the eyes, which showed a casual observer that here lay a former beauty, a relic of another time, another era. A time when she was a show stopper, a woman of account. Now there was laughter in those eyes as she watched, beneath hooded lids, the two young nurses tidying her room.
She knew she was old and she accepted it. Death would just be another great adventure, she was sure of that. It was one of the prerogatives of great age that you made yourself ready to meet your maker. Well, she had a few things to say to him when the time came.
‘She was lovely in her day wasn’t she?’ The blonde-haired nurse picked up a photograph in a heavy silver frame. It showed a beautiful, doe-eyed woman, wrapped in fox furs, wearing a cloche hat. Her heavily lipsticked mouth formed a perfect cupid’s bow. She could have been a silent screen star.
‘Yes, gorgeous. Look at all that hair coming out from underneath that hat.’
The mousey-haired girl sounded envious. What she wouldn’t give for the old girl’s hair, even as it was now, speckled with grey.
‘Did you read about her? In the News of the World the other week? She had a life, she did. All those scandals in the ’sixties! Politicians and that, even Royalty!’ The girl lowered her voice now, as if remembering the old lady was in the room.
‘You don’t have to whisper, dears, I’m not dead yet!’
Both nurses jumped at the sound of her voice, low pitched and surprisingly strong. She looked so tiny, so tiny and vulnerable, until she opened her mouth.
‘I was seventeen when that photo was taken. I was a looker and all. Had all the men after me!’
One of the nurses sat down on the bed.
‘Is it true what they said about you?’
The tiny frame shook with a deep husky laugh that turned into a hacking cough.
‘Let’s just say that there’s an element of truth in there, shall we?’
The two nurses exchanged glances.
‘Is it
true that Jonathan La Billière started out in blue films?’
Briony sat up in bed and scowled. ‘He’s got a knighthood, you know, but he always had a soft spot for me, did Jonny. I knew many men, my loves, and I learnt one thing. Never open your mouth about anyone or anything, unless you stand to benefit by it. It’s a rule I’ve lived by for nearly ninety years! There’s things that will go to my grave with me, and there’s people who think the sooner I go and take me knowledge with me, the better off everyone will be!’
She laughed again then, pulling herself up in the bed, she lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke down into the depths of her lungs.
‘Well, Miss Briony, you certainly have led a chequered life!’
‘How about a drop of the hard then, girls? There’s a bottle of brandy over there in the dresser. I’ll have a large one please.’
The blonde nurse went to the dresser and poured out the drink. The old woman sighed. This place was costing over a thousand pounds a week, though it was worth every penny. But a thousand pounds was still a lot of money, even for two of them! A thousand pounds to someone from her beginnings was a small fortune, but money was a necessity in life; without it, you were vulnerable. She sipped the fiery liquid and felt it burn the back of her throat.
‘One of the perks of having money - you can happily drink yourself to death and no one gives a damn.’
The nurses smiled.
‘They’re making a film about me, you know? About me and my sisters. My sister Kerry was the singer. She was the youngest. Five of us, there were, but I’m the only one left. Kerry was the gifted one, and like many gifted people she used her talent to destroy herself.’ Her eyes clouded over, as if she could see her sister once more in front of her.
‘But they won’t mention my poor Rosalee, I made sure of that, nor too much about my Eileen. I brought up Eileen’s children, you know. Then there was my Bernadette. The sweetest child God ever put on this earth, unless you upset her that is! I’m the only one left out of the five of us, and I’m well on me way to the century!’
The face closed again and the old woman became lost in another world. A world that spanned many years and that seemed more real to her with every passing day.
Chapter One
Molly Cavanagh shivered underneath the sacking. It was so very cold. She could feel the earthy dampness beneath the mattress with every movement of her aching back. She shifted position slightly and looked at the children huddled around the dying fire. The eldest, Eileen, turned to face her mother and lifted her eyebrows questioningly. Molly shook her head; the child was a long way from coming. Time enough to get Mrs Briggs when it was well on.
‘Can I get you a drink, Ma?’
Molly held out a dirty hand to Eileen and she came to her mother’s side.
‘Go down to Donnelly’s and get some coal. There’s a few pennies in me skirt pocket.’
The girl turned from her and Molly grabbed at her hand. ‘And keep your eye on that Brendan Donnelly. Make sure he weighs it properly, last time it was all slack.’
As she spoke her breath gleamed like white mist in the dimness.
‘I will, Ma.’ Eileen picked up a shawl and, pocketing the pennies, she left the basement room. The four other little girls watched her go. Kerry, the youngest, got up from her place by the fender and slipped under the covers with her ma.
Molly closed her eyes. When that Paddy got in today she’d cut the legs from under him. It was always the same when he was working: full of good intentions until payday. ‘We’ll pay a bit off the back of the rent. We’ll have a grand dinner of pie and peas and taties. We’ll maybe even send the little ones to school.’ Then when the first week’s wages came it was straight down The Bull for a jar of Watney’s, without a thought for her or his children.
Her mind was jolted back to the present by Briony, her second eldest daughter. Never a child to keep her temper long, the crack as she slapped her younger sister Bernadette across the legs broke the silence of the room.
‘Ma! Ma! She gave me a dig! Did you see that, Ma? Did you see that?’
Kerry sat up in the bed with excitement. ‘Will you be slapping the face off of Briony, Ma? I saw the crack she gave our Bernie ...’
‘Will you all be quiet! And Bernadette, stop that howling and jigging about before I give you all a crack.’
Something in their mother’s voice communicated itself to the children who all became quiet at once.
After a few minutes Kerry started to sing softly to herself. Bernadette sat beside Rosalee; taking her hand, she smiled into the vacant eyes. Molly watched, and as she saw Rosalee smile back, felt a pain in her chest. Why the hell had God sent her Rosalee? Hadn’t she enough on her plate as it was without an idiot? Then, seeing her chance, Bernadette leant over Rosalee and pinched Briony hard on the inside of her leg. She leapt up in the air. Pushing Rosalee out of the way, she grabbed at Bernadette’s hair, dragging the now screaming child across the dirt floor, shaking her as Bernadette grabbed hopelessly at the fingers tugging her hair.
Kerry sat up again in the bed. ‘That’s it, our Briony. Scratch the skin from her hands... The dirty bitch!’
Molly dragged her cumbersome body up. With one deft movement she slapped Kerry’s face. A howl went up. Then she dragged herself from the bed and set about Briony and Bernadette. Her work-worn hands found legs and arms and she slapped them hard. Rosalee watched it all in the dying firelight and her expression never changed. Three shrieking voices rang in Molly’s ears. She held on to the mantelpiece for support as a pain tore through her. Bent double, she gasped and tried to steady her breathing.
‘I’m giving you all one last warning,’ she told them, ‘I mean it. One sound and you’re all out in the backyard until the birth’s over. If you don’t think I’d send you out in the cold, then you just try me ... You just bloody try me!’
She staggered back to her bed. Briony tried to help her, sorry now for all the trouble, and Molly slapped her hands away.
‘You, Briony, should know better. You’re eight years old. You should be helping me, child.’
She dropped her eyes and her thick red hair hung over her face like a tangled curtain.
‘I’m sorry, Ma.’
Molly climbed into bed once more. The bugs in it ran amok, this way and that, trying to get into the torn mattress before they were squashed by the bulk above them.
‘“I’m sorry, Ma”. If I had a penny for every time I heard that, I’d be living the life of Riley! One more word out of any of you and I’ll let your father find you work. I mean it.’
Briony was scared now. Her father would farm them out in the morning; it was only her mother who’d stopped him until now. She took Bernadette’s hand and led her to the fireside. Rosalee smiled at them both and Briony hugged her close. Molly resumed her wait. Kerry crooned softly to herself again.
‘Sing us a song, Kerry.’ Briony’s voice broke the gloom. ‘Send our Rosalee off to sleep.’
Kerry lay beside her mother, her little face screwed up in consternation as she tried to think of an appropriate song.
Her haunting little voice came slowly at first but Molly relaxed against the dirty pillows and sighed. Kerry’s voice was like a draught of fresh air.
‘In Dublin’s fair city,
Where the girls are so pretty,
I first set my eyes
On sweet Molly Malone ...’
The mood in the room was once more homely. Briony smiled at Bernadette over Rosalee’s short cropped hair, their earlier fight forgotten. Molly watched her children and thanked God for the peace that had descended. It wouldn’t last long, she was aware of that, but while it lasted she would enjoy it.
Eileen’s bare feet were frozen. The cobbles had a thin sheet of ice on them and as she walked with the bucket of coal it banged against her shins, breaking the skin. She put the bucket down and rubbed them with one hand. She could hear the singing and almost feel the foetid warmth of The Bull as she stood outside. The street
lamps had been lit and they cast a pink glow around her. She straightened and pushed her thick curly hair back off her face. As she bent down to pick up the bucket once more, a man stood in front of her. Eileen looked up into a large red face.
‘What’s your name, little girl?’ Eileen knew from his voice that he was class.
‘Eileen Cavanagh, sir.’
The man was looking her over from head to foot and she squirmed beneath his gaze. He pushed her hair back from her face, and studied her in the light of the street lamp.
‘You’re quite a pretty little thing, Eileen Cavanagh.’
She wasn’t sure how to answer the man who seemed to be dressed all in black, from his highly polished boots to his heavy cape and big black hat. He was well armoured against the weather and she wondered if it had occurred to him that she was freezing.
‘Thank you kindly, sir. I ... I have to be getting along, me ma’s waiting on the coal.’
The man put heavy gloved hands on her shoulders and kneaded them, as if seeing how much meat she had on her. Then the doors of The Bull opened and a man stumbled out into the street.
Eileen recognised her da at once and called to him. ‘Da ... Da! It’s me, Eileen.’
Paddy Cavanagh was drunk. Very drunk. And to add to his misery he had lost every penny of his wages on a bet. His fuddled brain tried to take in what was happening as he lumbered over to his daughter.
‘Is that you, our Eileen?’
