PAT NEVER DID stand Frank the pint he’d promised him, the main reason being that during the weeks since Frank had saved him from the man with the docker’s hook, Pat had done his best to avoid Frank Barber at all costs, not trusting himself to be within punching distance of a man who had saved his life but who had also openly admitted he found Katie so attractive. Whenever he spotted him in the street or at work he would duck out of sight, and if ever Frank came to the house, Pat would make sudden, loudly announced dashes for the lavatory.
But Pat was now faced with a situation where he wouldn’t be able to avoid meeting him; he had no choice. Katie and Mags were organising a street party to celebrate the Silver Jubilee, and no matter how ingenious his excuses, Pat was soon resigned to the fact that, unless he was hospitalised, he wouldn’t be able to get out of it.
Not that he hadn’t tried. He’d agreed with Katie that the King was, in his words, a harmless old geezer, all right even, in his own way; but how could he, Red Pat, a man whose every belief was against all that the monarchy stood for, celebrate his reign? And anyway, didn’t he have more important things to do with his time, like trying to earn his living?
Katie listened patiently but she still wasn’t having any of it. It had caused enough rows when he hadn’t gone to the Procession, she said – not spitefully, she didn’t even raise her voice – but what with everything they had been through, a knees-up was just what they all needed. And it would prove to everyone, show them all, that the East End spirit couldn’t be defeated by hard times and a run of bad luck.
So, he was coming to the party and that was that.
Katie had judged the mood exactly. Except for her husband, everyone else agreed that celebrating 6 May 1935, King George V’s Silver Jubilee, was the perfect opportunity for people to forget the cost for just one day and to have a good time regardless.
Mags had actually come up with the idea, and had mentioned it one bright April morning when she and Katie had bumped into each other as they were going into the corner shop.
They had started to ask Edie what she thought of it, but were interrupted by two little kids who dashed breathlessly into the shop and pushed their way forward to the counter. Katie and Mags were now waiting patiently while the two children, whom neither of them recognised, tried to persuade Edie to give them back the money on the roll of lavatory paper they were returning.
The guests their mum had been expecting hadn’t turned up after all, they explained, so she wouldn’t need to waste her money on rolls of Izal, but could use squares of newspaper as they usually did. Edie, however, was questioning the pair closely; she wasn’t convinced that they hadn’t pinched the stuff off a stall and were trying to use Edie as an unwitting fence for stolen property.
‘So what d’yer reckon, Kate?’ Mags asked, as they waited for Edie to finish her inquisition of the two youngsters.
‘I reckon it sounds a blimmin’ good idea, Mags. As yer say, this street could do with something to liven it up, like the beanos we used to have every year when we could all afford ’em. They always did everyone a power of good, didn’t they?’
Mags chuckled. ‘Apart from that poor old cow from round Ricardo Street, what Phoebe used to wind up upping every year.’
Edie was listening to Mags and Katie with one ear, while she finished her negotiations with the two children. Her final offer was that she would pay them half now and the other half if they got a note from their mum. When they readily agreed to the deal, that was when she knew they were lying, and came from behind the counter and shooed them out of the door. No kid telling the truth would have dared to go home without all the money they’d been sent out for.
Satisfied with her detective work, Edie resumed her position behind the counter. ‘Yer know Phoebe always reckoned that old girl from Ricardo Street had her eye on her Albert, don’t yer?’
The three women sniggered at the thought of it.
‘Even Albert’s old mum would never have had him down as no oil painting.’ Edie paused, locked for the moment into some private memory. ‘We’ve had some good times in this street over the years, ain’t we?’
‘Yeah, yer right there, Ede,’ agreed Katie. ‘And yer know what they say, there’s good times just around the corner and all. There’ll be good times again.’
Edie crossed herself and cast her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘Please God.’
‘I thought we’d ask some of the other turnings round here if they wanna join in,’ said Mags. ‘Just like we used to do with the beanos. But I reckon Plumley Street’d be the obvious place to have it, what with the wall and everything.’
‘More the merrier,’ said Katie, warming to the idea. ‘Tell yer what, Mags, yer wanna see if your Margaret’ll come. Get her to bring her old man with her.’
‘I dunno if she’d want to, to tell yer the truth, Kate.’ Mags pulled out her hankie from her sleeve and started fiddling with the lace edging. ‘Not now she’s got her place down there. Done up like a little palace it is.’ Her bottom lip started trembling. ‘I miss her, yer know. She said I’m always welcome, but I don’t like to go, not unless I’m asked special like.’
Mags dropped down on to the bentwood chair that was usually occupied by customers a lot less well-preserved than the smartly turned out landlady of the Queen’s. ‘I worry, see, that my Margaret thinks she’s too good for the East End now she’s living down there.’ She looked up, her gaze passing from Katie to Edie and back again. Her eyes were brimming. ‘She’s got a privet hedge and everything, yer know?’
Katie nearly burst out laughing at Mags’s peculiar notion that a privet hedge might make a person superior in some way, but Katie would never intentionally hurt anyone, especially not someone as kind and generous as Mags Donovan.
‘I reckon we should start collecting straight away,’ Katie said brightly, trying to cheer Mags up a bit. ‘We’ve got a couple of weeks, and I tell yer what, if you drop your Margaret a line I bet she’ll be up here like a shot. She always loved a do.’
‘Yeah, she did.’ Mags seemed slightly comforted by the thought. She blew her nose genteelly and stuffed her hankie back up the sleeve of her brightly coloured print dress. ‘I’ll ask all me customers what come in today. See who’s interested.’
‘Good idea, Mags,’ nodded Edie. ‘I’ll do the same.’
‘And I can start going round giving all the neighbours a knock.’
‘They’ll all wanna join in,’ said Mags, with a flap of her hand. ‘Well, maybe not the Lanes.’
Edie looked thoughtful. ‘I reckon she would, that Irene. Give her a chance to show off her latest frocks. She’s got some lovely things, that girl.’
‘Have to watch she don’t go chasing Phoebe’s Albert, though,’ Katie said with great solemnity. Even though part of her was furious about the night she had caught Sean in the Lanes’ house – especially as he still refused to say what he’d been up to in there – she was shaking with suppressed laughter at the thought of the glamorous Irene and smelly old Albert Tucker. ‘I mean, we don’t want no fights breaking out, do we?’
‘She was good to me, yer know, Irene, after my Bert . . .’ Edie said quietly. ‘Never made no fuss. Just brought me flowers to try and cheer me up. Told me to make sure I was eating properly, and having enough sleep and that.’
Katie frowned. ‘Did she? I never realised.’ She turned to Mags. ‘Did you?’
Mags started giggling. ‘No,’ she spluttered. ‘Sorry, I was just picturing her sitting on old Albert’s knee with her arms round his scraggy old neck!’
The three of them were still laughing when the door opened and Phoebe Tucker came bowling into the shop. She had a battered, black straw hat perched over her miserable, broad, fat face, with an incongruous bunch of cheerful, bright red cherries dangling over one eye.
‘What’s all this about?’ she demanded, giving Mags the evil eye until she took the hint and gave up the chair to her.
‘We’re organising a street party. For the Jubilee,’ explained Edie, not daring to look at the others in case they set her off again. We was just sorting out collecting the money.’ She looked at Mags and Katie. ‘I know what’d be a good idea,’ she said. ‘If we get every one to give a bit extra, we could ask the Miltons without them knowing anyone’s gotta pay anything.’
Mags nodded, liking the sound of the idea. ‘We could say the brewery was stumping up.’
‘Good idea,’ said Katie.
‘That’s all you lot know.’ Phoebe nodded her head wisely, sending the cherries into a jiggling little dance over her nose.
‘Eh?’ said Mags, unable to say any more without laughing.
‘You lot obviously ain’t seen him, have yer?’
The women’s laughter was now forgotten.
‘Is something wrong in number three?’ Katie asked.
‘Wrong? Pwwhhhuh!’
Mags folded her arms and looked Phoebe levelly in the eye. ‘I ain’t playing games with yer, Phoeb. If yer’ve got something to say, for Gawd’s sake just say it. Has something happened in there, or what?’
Too keen to want to pass on her gossip to be worried about the tone Mags was taking with her, Phoebe leant forward, her chins spilling over the faded velvet collar of her serge coat. ‘He’s had it off, ain’t he? That Milton. These last few days he’s been walking about with a suit on and everything. And just yesterday, I saw her coming back from the market with enough shopping to feed a flaming army.’
Mags frowned. ‘What? Ellen Milton?’
‘Funny enough,’ Edie said, ‘the kids was in here buying sweets and showing me their new football the other day. I thought nothing of it. Just reckoned someone had treated ’em.’
Phoebe shook her head. ‘No, you mark my word, it’s him, he’s come into a few bob.’ She shifted her weight, making the chair creak alarmingly beneath her. ‘’Cos he certainly ain’t got himself no job. I mean, he’s indoors all day, ain’t he?’
‘Maybe’s he’s got nightwork somewhere,’ Edie suggested, never one to see bad in anybody if she could help it.
‘What, nightwork what pays the sort o’ dough he’s flashing about? Never. He’s had some rich old uncle die or something. Them sort have all the luck. Breed like rabbits and don’t have to lift a finger.’
Katie looked from Mags to Edie and back again, raising her eyebrows and sighing. ‘I can see yer busy, and I’ve gotta get on and all,’ she said. ‘I’ll be over later and we can sort out doing the collecting then.’
‘I’ll pop back later and all,’ Mags said, following Katie from the shop.
‘See yer,’ Edie called after them. ‘Right, Phoebe, now what can I do for yer?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, hauling her bulky frame from the chair. ‘Yer don’t reckon I’m paying your prices when the market’s open, do yer?’
The day of the Jubilee dawned grey and overcast, with a steady drizzle laying down a glossy slick of water on the cobbles – not what everyone had hoped for at all. But bad weather was no match for the residents of Plumley Street. They were holding a street party that was being attended by people from all of the surrounding turnings and they had no intention of letting anyone say that they couldn’t put on a decent show. So, raining it might have been but the work to transform Plumley Street went on unabated.
Bunting and paper garlands were draped between lampposts, looped from one house to the next, hung in wreathed swags around windows, and stretched from one side of the street to the other. Big, colourful flags, representing some unknown and probably unheard-of country – borrowed by Bill Watts from someone over Hoxton way who had the hump with his neighbours and had gone to his daughter’s street to celebrate – were used to cover the row of kitchen tables that had been lined up along the middle of the road.
It was not even nine o’clock, but Plumley Street was already transformed.
Katie, having told Michael and Timmy to help her lug their kitchen table into the street almost before they had had the chance to finish their breakfast, was now busily decorating the outside of number twelve. She stood on a chair, while Timmy and Michael handed her the paper and crayon Empire flags and Union Jacks they had made at school. Carefully, she fixed each one around the door frame, leaning back to see if she’d got them straight.
‘This is better than doing the laundry, eh, Peg?’ she shouted across to her neighbour, who was concentrating on folding sheets of newspaper into Nelson-style paper hats.
‘You ain’t kidding there, girl. I could fancy having a party every Monday morning instead of lighting that flaming copper.’ Peg stood up and stuck one of the hats on her tightly permed hair, then, in a moment of recklessness that could have only come from the holiday atmosphere, she added, ‘Sod the washing, eh, Kate?’
‘Yeah, sod it!’ Kate called back, causing Michael and Timmy to collapse in fits of giggles at the amazing sound of Mrs Watts and their mum using such a word out in the street.
‘Sod it!’ gurgled Michael, clutching his sides. ‘They both said sod it!’
Just then, Pat stepped out of the passage. Edging past Katie’s chair, he stared down at the boys. ‘What’s tickling this pair’s fancy?’ he asked.
‘Tickling our fancy!’ squealed Timmy, his face scarlet with laughter.
‘They’re excited,’ Katie said, with a little wrinkle of her nose. She smiled down affectionately at her two now almost helpless sons. ‘Bless ’em.’
‘I’ll give ’em bless ’em,’ said Pat, looking up at the first rays of sunshine breaking through the clouds, ‘if they don’t pull ’emselves together and start helping yer.’
‘They’re all right, love. They’ve been good as gold. Been helping me all morning, ain’t yer, boys?’
The boys gawped at one another; their mother had obviously been replaced by a ringer. Instead of the woman whose only aim in life was to get them told off by their dad, she had been substituted by this nice, understanding lady whose only aim in life was to be kind to small boys.
‘So,’ she asked, still smiling happily, ‘where you off to then, Pat?’
Pat winked at her behind his hand and held out a brown paper parcel. ‘I’m just taking this over the Queen’s. It’s that, yer know . . .’ He nodded towards the boys, signalling to Katie that he was now speaking in parents’ code, an indecipherable language that could only leave the boys guessing as to the actual significance of its words. ‘That whatsit, what I got from work last Friday.’
‘Aw yeah, yeah. Yer’d better get it over to her then, hadn’t yer?’
‘What’s that then, Dad?’ asked Michael, his recovery from hysterics now almost complete as he struggled with this new puzzle.
Pat winked again at Katie and held up the package. ‘It’s a great big plate of air pie and windy pudden. Now, you two, I want yer to get up off yer arses and help yer mother. Now.’
More language! Michael’s mouth dropped open. Had all the grown-ups gone raving mad?
Pat said nothing more. He just strolled over towards the Queen’s and disappeared behind the glass and mahogany doors.
‘All right, Mags?’ Pat put his parcel down on the polished counter. ‘Katie said yer was organising all the food from over here, so I thought I’d bring yer this. A bit extra never hurts, does it?’
Mags peeled back the wrapping and found herself looking at a great haunch of boiled ham. ‘Blimey, Pat. This must have cost yer a fortune.’
‘Not really,’ he said slowly. ‘See, I got a cotchell of it from work. This crate just burst open on the dockside. Right in front of me, it did. Seemed a pity to leave it there, so me and another bloke had a bit of a share-out. And Katie cooked it last night. Took hours it did.’
‘I bet it did. And it was a bit of luck, weren’t it? I mean, that it weren’t a crate of old rusty nuts and bolts or nothing.’
Pat shrugged innocently. ‘Yeah, I reckon yer right, Mags. It was a bit o’ luck, ’cos I reckon we’re all gonna need plenty o’ grub to line our guts. Right jolly-up, this is gonna be.’ He stepped back to let Harold Donovan and Joe Palmer stagger past him with a barrel of ale. ‘All right, chaps?’
They grunted a panting reply.
Pat laughed as the two men pushed their way out of the bar and lurched out on to the street. ‘There’s enough booze stacked up out there already for a fleet of charras going on a beano.’
Mags raised her eyebrows. ‘Harold’s kept saying all morning, “I’d better put out one more crate. Don’t want no one going short.”’ She lifted her chin with a little tutting sound. ‘Yer right, we’re gonna need plenty o’ sandwiches, all right. I’ll take this out the back and get on with it. Thanks again, Pat.’
‘It’s a pleasure, girl. I’ll see yer later on. I’m gonna go and see if I can give Harold and Joe a hand with anything.’
‘All right, Pat,’ Mags answered him, using her foot to push open the door that led out to the back kitchen. ‘And if yer see Aggie out there,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘tell her I’m ready to get started, will yer?’
‘Can I help till she gets here, Mum?’
Mags nearly dropped the ham at the sound of the voice she had been longing to hear. ‘Margaret!’
By two o’clock, the time the party was due to begin, the sun was shining, and the street was full of people, most of them wearing some combination of red, white and blue. Even Phoebe and Sooky, still sitting outside their houses on their kitchen chairs and still wearing their slippers and rolled down stockings, had made a bit of an effort. Both of them had spent the night with their hair wound tightly round metal crackers and Phoebe was even sporting a smear of scarlet lipstick – her loyal flash of red especially for the occasion.
Mags had organised all the other women from Plumley Street to help her carry the food out to the tables. Edie had been right about Irene Lane: she seemed only too pleased for the opportunity to join in. Making an odd partnership with Nutty Lil – who was sticking to Irene like a limpet after setting her eyes on Irene’s dazzling blue and silver lamé outfit – she tottered in and out of the Queen’s back kitchen on her red spiky high heels, carrying plates and bowls of food with the rest of them.
And there was plenty to carry. Apart from the money that Katie, Mags and Edie had collected over the weeks from friends and neighbours, the few who could afford to had produced plenty of little extras that they had made or bought, and others like Pat, who had somehow just come into a bit of ‘luck’, had brought their spoils along too, so that by the time the convoy of women had finished going back and forward to the pub, the tables were groaning with food. There were not just sandwiches, but pies and pickles, cheeses and shellfish, jellies and trifles, cakes and biscuits – and another two crates of brown ale and one of lemonade that Harold had brought out as an afterthought – just in case, he had assured Mags. But now that their Margaret and her husband Paul were there to share it all with them, Mags certainly wasn’t complaining. Harold could have emptied the whole cellar for all she cared.
After everyone had sat down at the long row of tables and eaten their fill – then just a bit more, rather than see such bounty go to waste – the tea urn that Nora had commandeered from the church was set up outside the shop. Then, while the grown-ups settled down to get over their blowout, the older kids lifted the tables to one side and organised their younger brothers and sisters into teams to play a boisterous, unorthodox game of cricket with the stumps chalked in their traditional spot on the high wall at the end of the street.
But Molly – so well known for her powerful swing at the wicket that Pat had once claimed if she’d been a boy she would have been the perfect replacement for Jack Hobbs when he’d retired – just wasn’t interested in the game today. No matter how hard her little brothers tried to cajole her into taking her turn at bat, or any amount of her dad’s good-natured coaxing, she just couldn’t be persuaded to play. Instead she sat on the kerb, sipping moodily at her cup of tea, staring into space, preferring to be left alone with her thoughts.
Molly’s absence was soon forgotten as the game got underway, and both sides were enthusiastically running up and down the turning as though their lives depended on it. When the two sides reached a draw, it was decided by the grown-ups – well used to how these things could get out of control and develop into a full-scale battle when kids from more than one street were involved – that the match was over and it was time to start on the next part of the celebrations, the part that included opening some of Harold’s assorted bottles and barrels.
The remains of the food and the tea things were cleared away into the saloon bar of the pub for later attention, the first barrel was tapped, and with a glass of ale in his hand and the promise of plenty more, to follow, Jimmo Shay was soon persuaded to give them all a tune on his concertina.
Jimmo only played the silver and mother-of-pearl-studded instrument on high days and holidays, but he prided himself on the fact, as he was never tired of telling anyone who would listen, that he had never ever pawned it, not once, had not even been tempted to, no matter how bad things had got. His old dad had left it to him as his inheritance, and he would never have forgiven himself if he had taken it round uncle’s.
Jimmo emptied his glass in two gulps, and with a shout of, ‘Right then, let’s be seeing a bit of dancing here,’ he launched into ‘The Isle of Capri’ and they were off.
Liz dragged Danny away from the beer and was just steering him towards the part of the street that had become the dance floor when she spotted Molly still sitting alone on the kerb.
‘Come on, Dan, let’s see if we can cheer her up a bit.’
‘Yer’ll have a bloody hard job,’ Danny muttered grudgingly, as he followed her. He liked a dance, and would happily have had a few turns round the floor with Liz, even though it meant missing swallowing a few glasses of free beer, but when it came to listening to his sister moaning, that definitely wasn’t on his list of what he fancied doing at a party. He could do that any day of the week.
‘All right, Moll?’ Liz asked her gently.
Molly shrugged. ‘Yeah. S’pose so.’
Liz silently signalled for Danny to leave her alone with Molly. He opened his mouth to complain that she’d just dragged him over there, but Liz hurriedly shook her head and flashed her eyes towards Molly, warning him to keep quiet. So Danny just shrugged and headed back to where the men were gathered by the booze and where he at least would have a clue as to what was going on and what was expected of him.
Satisfied that Danny was out of earshot, Liz smiled down at Molly. ‘That’s him off to get another glass of ale. Still, who needs fellers, eh? Tell yer what, fancy coming to have a dance?’ She laughed encouragingly. ‘We’ve practised in me bedroom enough times over the years to be champions, you and me.’
Molly exhaled slowly. ‘It’ll be two years in August, Liz.’ She looked up at her friend. ‘Did yer know that? Two years, and we’re still hiding round corners.’
‘You really are fed up, ain’t yer, Moll? You ain’t even mentioned him to me for ages.’ Liz sank down on to the kerb beside her and touched her tenderly on the arm. ‘I hate to see yer like this. You was always laughing and joking, and now look at yer. Yer look like yer’ve got the weight of the world on yer shoulders.’
‘See, the more I think about him, the more I know I’m really stuck on him. I can’t help it. I just can’t get him out of me head.’
‘But it’s no good, is it, Moll, you getting yerself all upset?’ She paused, not quite sure how to put her thoughts into words. ‘Have you ever,’ she began slowly, ‘thought that yer might be better off finding yerself someone else? Someone yer could eventually settle down with?’
‘Don’t yer think I would have done if I could? It ain’t as simple as that, Liz.’
‘I know. I know.’
They sat there for a moment, Liz now as glum-faced as Molly. But Liz suddenly brightened up. ‘Here, look, Moll. There’s that feller from Sussex Street looking at yer again.’
‘Do what?’
‘That feller. You know, Maureen Murphy’s big brother. He can’t take his eyes off yer.’ Liz was on her feet, heaving Molly up from the pavement. ‘Come on, you and me’re gonna go over and talk to him. And you, Molly Katherine Mehan, are gonna dance with him.’
‘Yer wasting yer time, Liz.’
‘Yer like dancing, don’t yer?’
‘Yer know I do.’
‘So what’s the harm? One little dance.’
Pat was helping Harold pour drinks at the bar they had set up outside the Queen’s, when Katie came rushing up to him through the crowd, seemingly not caring about the safety of the tray of used glasses she was carrying.
‘You seen our Molly?’ she asked Pat excitedly. ‘Look, she’s dancing with Bridget Murphy’s boy.’ She looked round, checking that her eyes hadn’t deceived her. ‘I’m that glad, Pat. I’ve been so worried about her.’
Pat reached across the bar and chucked his wife under the chin. ‘We’ll have a dance in a minute, shall we, girl?’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Katie, emptying her tray on to the temporary bar. ‘But yer’ll have to hang on a minute, I’ve just gotta collect a few more glasses or there’ll be none left for you and Harold to fill at the rate that mob are drinking.’
‘Yer right there, Kate,’ said Harold, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, before slapping a much smaller hand that was trying to filch a bottle of pale ale from behind his back. ‘It’s flipping murder. My Mags is too busy chatting to our Margaret to do anything here, but I told her, if she don’t give us a hand soon, I’ll wind up in Colney Hatch at this rate.’
‘Don’t worry, Harold, I’ll get Joe to take over when I go and take me wife for a turn round the dance floor.’ Pat smiled the smile that still had the effect of making Katie feel like a young girl again. ‘But she’d better not take too long fetching them glasses, or I just might have to go and ask Phoebe for a dance instead.’
Katie set down the tray and stuck her fists into her waist. ‘If that’s how yer feel, Padraic, I’d better go over and warn her off yer, hadn’t I? No woman’s gonna get her hands on my old man.’ She leant forward and whispered so that only Pat could hear her. ‘Especially not a woman with a nose like a strawberry, ’cos I know how yer like a bit of soft fruit.’ With a saucy wink and a flick of her apron, Katie picked up her tray again and flounced over towards Phoebe and Sooky.
Katie was too busy finding empty glasses and Pat was too busy filling them up again to notice that as soon as Molly finished her dance with Bridget Murphy’s boy, she thanked him politely and then ran home to cry in the privacy of their back kitchen.
Katie was just straightening up from collecting the row of empties that Phoebe and Sooky had lined up beside their chairs, when she saw Nutty Lil dance past, proudly displaying to the two miserable old women the blue and silver stole that Irene Lane had given her.
Irene was insisting that Lil take the wrap she so obviously coveted, when Arthur Lane had come puffing along the street, shouting for Irene to shift herself, as he’d got them a cab and it was waiting for them at the end of the street with the meter running, and he didn’t intend paying out good money for her to take her time.
‘It was nice of that Irene, giving her that, wasn’t it?’ Katie said as she watched Lil go weaving through the other dancers, the stole spread out across her arms like blue and silver wings. ‘I don’t think she wanted to leave, yer know. She looked like she was enjoying herself being with everyone. Still, ne’mind, Lil looks happy anyway, don’t she?’
‘Happy?’ Phoebe was scandalised by the very idea. ‘Pissed more like. And just look at that hat of her’n, will yer? Stuck on her head like a sodding flowerpot. Looks just like she got it with a pound o’ tea, it does.’
Katie went to speak, but Phoebe had paused just long enough to draw breath.
‘And while we’re at it,’ she went on, arms folded and chins wobbling, ‘will yer look at that Milton feller over there? Bold as brass he is. Wearing that fifty-bob suit of his again. Parading about in it like he’s the pox doctor’s bleed’n clerk. And I hear as how they’ve paid the tally man off.’
Sooky nodded wisely. ‘That’s what I hear and all.’
‘And have yer seen all the torn she’s taken to wearing, that Ellen Milton? Even more’n that bloody Laney’s old woman had on. Rings, earrings and a chain round her scraggy neck, if yer don’t mind. Bit different to how it used to be, having to dress off o’ the barrows. And look at her boat and all: she’s got enough powder slapped on them skinny chops of her’n to cover a dozen babies’ arses I reckon.’
Katie could hold her tongue no longer. ‘And I reckon it’s smashing seeing people having a bit o’ luck in these hard times.’
‘Luck? Luck?’ Phoebe was incredulous. ‘You seen that kettle he’s got on that bleed’n chain across his weskit? Gold hunter it is.’ She turned to Sooky. ‘Bit like that one Bert Johnson had to sell to Laney now I come to think of it.’
‘I thought even you’d have a day off for the Jubilee, Phoeb.’ Katie shook her head wearily. ‘I reckon if someone had a new pair of drawers on, you’d turn out to have a nose in case the wind blew their skirt up.’
Phoebe as usual was immune to anyone criticising her, too dedicated to her mission of judging others to bother with nonsense like that. ‘You just wait and see,’ she went on. ‘I’m telling yer now, it’ll all come out. He’s probably turned that dirty hole of their’n into a sodding knocking shop, with his old woman doing the business upstairs. They could bring all sorts of blokes along that back alley behind the shop and no one’d ever know.’
‘You spiteful, wicked-minded old—’ Katie began, but there was no stopping Phoebe when she was in full flow.
‘I’m telling yer, you just watch. She’ll wind up having all sorts of troubles . . .’ she dipped her chin, and stared in her lap ‘. . . down there, and saying she don’t know what’s wrong with her. Well, we’ll know, won’t we?’
‘Why can’t you keep your nose out of nothing?’ Katie snapped. ‘If you was a younger woman, Phoebe Tucker—’
Sooky tutted in alarm. ‘That’s it, go on, have a go at an old girl what can hardly move what with that rain this morning bringing on her screws.’ She turned to her old neighbour. ‘You just ignore her, Phoeb.’
Katie was saved from working herself up any further by someone behind her coughing loudly in an effort to attract her attention. She turned her head to see Pat standing there; he was bowing theatrically.
‘I thought yer’d forgotten our dance,’ he said, and held out two bottles of milk stout to Phoebe and Sooky. ‘Get that down yer, girls,’ he said to the two women. ‘But yer wanna watch yerselves, there’s a baby in every bottle o’ that gear. That’d surprise yer old man, eh, Phoeb?’
‘Bleed’n would and all,’ she said, snatching the bottles from Pat’s hands. She jerked her head in the direction of the pub where Albert was trying to stop Jimmo playing his music. ‘Just look at him, the silly old bugger. Pissed as a pudden. I know exactly what he’s gonna do.’
‘What’s that then, Phoeb?’ Sooky asked, as she poured her stout into a glass she’d retrieved from Katie’s tray.
‘One of his bleed’n recitations. I knew he would. And if he does that really rude one . . .’ Phoebe shook her head and had an expression on her face that was the nearest thing to shame that Katie had ever seen in her. ‘Last time he dared do that was Armistice night. And I bent a bottle right over his bonce for his trouble and all. If I wasn’t settled just nice on this chair—’
Pat roared with laughter. ‘I’d love to see yer do that again, Phoeb. It’s about time we all had something to smile about.’
‘Dunno what you’re laughing about, Pat Mehan. The smile’ll be on the other side of everyone’s faces soon,’ droned a sour-looking elderly man who was leaning against the wall behind Sooky. He had a pint in one hand and a short in the other. ‘Them Germans – we’re gonna be in trouble with ’em again. You mark my words.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Katie, trying not to giggle.
‘From round, you know, Ida Street way,’ sniffed Phoebe, looking him up and down with unconcealed contempt. ‘Dirty old bleeder.’
‘Oi! Who you calling a dirty old bleeder?’ demanded a grimy, but flashily dressed man in his forties. ‘That’s my old dad, that is.’
‘Well, yer should be ashamed of him,’ snapped Sooky, surprising everyone with her vehemence. ‘I’ve had my eye on him. He’s tried to have his hand up nearly every girl’s skirt since he started pouring that Scotch down his throat.’
‘He’s what?’ demanded Pat.
‘Yeah,’ said Sooky, warming to her role of informer. ‘He wants to piss off back home; we don’t like that sort of thing round here.’ She twisted round to point directly at the man she was accusing, but he had moved away further along the street. ‘My good Gawd, will yer look at him now. I don’t believe it.’
Pat, Katie, Phoebe and the man’s son all turned to look in the direction Sooky was pointing, just in time to see him trying to drag Nutty Lil into the passage of the house where she and the Barbers lived.
Pat shoved his glass at Katie and took off down the road after him. ‘Ain’t yer gonna stop him?’ he shouted back over his shoulder to the man’s middle-aged son.
‘Leave off. Leave him alone,’ he yelled, racing after Pat. ‘She don’t even know what’s happening. I had a feel meself earlier on.’
Pat stopped in his tracks and spun round. ‘You what?’
The man laughed. ‘I thought every one had their turn with her.’
Pat said nothing more, he just swung his arm back and lifted the sneering man right off his feet with a sharp upper cut that connected neatly with his chin. As the dazed man struggled to his feet, Pat followed it with a left cross that sent him sprawling backwards into the gutter.
By now there was a crowd clamouring for a look: a fight was always a big draw at a street party.
‘What’s going on?’ Stephen asked Danny.
He just shrugged; he had no idea what was going on, but he wasn’t surprised it had come to this, not with all the free beer that had been sunk. He stood by his grandfather and watched as Pat with his back to number eleven, crouched over the man, waiting for him to get to his feet.
Behind his dad, Danny saw Frank Barber appear in the doorway. He had hold of the old man with one hand and Nutty Lil with the other.
‘Does anyone know what’s going on here?’ Frank asked, indicating his two prisoners as though they were exhibits in a court case. ‘I came out of me lav and found these two staggering about in me back kitchen.’
Pat turned to face Frank. ‘You wanna ask him,’ he scowled, jerking his head towards the old man. ‘And his no-good dirty bastard of a son.’
At that, the man’s son hauled himself to his feet and launched himself at Pat again.
Pat ducked to one side, easily avoiding the man’s punch.
Frank let go of his two uninvited guests and hurled himself at the man who was trying, and failing yet again, to land a punch on Pat’s chin.
Frank pinned the man’s arms to his sides. ‘Oi, oi, oi, come on now chaps. Yer don’t wanna fight. It was my flaming kitchen.’ He looked at the old man. ‘Now, are yer gonna tell me what all this is about?’
‘They’re a pair of dirty bastards,’ Phoebe chipped in from the position she had established for herself at the front of the crowd. ‘D’yer know what they done?’
‘What?’
Pat dropped his chin, barely able to say the words. ‘His son’s been feeling up Nutty Lil, ain’t he? And the old boy was going in your kitchen to have his turn.’
‘You what?’ Frank shook his head in disgust; he let go of the man’s arms, and without any warning spun him round, grabbed his collar and stuck a straight right directly on to his nose, making blood spurt all over the pair of them.
‘All right, Pat,’ Frank said, keeping his eyes fixed on the man, watching as he dabbed at his bloody nose with the stained sleeve of his jacket. ‘It’s over. No more now, eh? We’ll just get rid of ’em. We don’t wanna spoil the party. They’ll get theirs later on.’
Pat stepped round Frank, grabbed the man by his lapels, twisted him round and placed a boot up his backside. ‘If yer know what’s good for yer, just piss off out of it.’
As the two men slunk away, Frank called after them, ‘And yer’d better watch yerself if yer go down any dark alleys.’
The crowd were torn between cheering Frank and Pat and jeering at the two men.
‘All right, everyone,’ Pat said. ‘Show’s over. Let’s all have a drink, eh?’
‘He’s torn me pretty shawl,’ Lil wailed.
Katie put her arm round Lil’s shoulders. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Don’t cry. Let’s get you inside and wash yer face for yer. And we’ll make sure yer all right, eh?’
Peggy Watts stepped through the mob, holding young Theresa Barber’s hand, having kept her back from witnessing the fight. ‘You stand with Lizzie,’ she said to Theresa, as she flashed a look at Katie that said they both knew what they were afraid of. ‘Now give us yer shawl, love. And I’ll mend it for yer.’
‘No.’ Lil shook her head, frantically clutching the torn stole to her chest. ‘It’s mine. Honest. She give it to me. Said I could keep it.’
‘It’s all right, I was just gonna darn that hole.’
But Lil was having none of it.
‘Look,’ Katie suggested gently, ‘how about if we go in yours and mend it? You can keep hold of it while Peggy stitches it up. You ain’t gotta let go of it or nothing.’
Peggy went over and stood by Lil. ‘I could make it look good as new.’
Lil looked down at the ripped material, considered for a moment and then nodded warily.
‘Good. Come on then, Peg.’ Katie turned to Pat and said quietly, ‘I just wanna make sure he ain’t, you know, hurt her or nothing.’
Pat nodded, his teeth set rigid with anger.
‘You and Frank’d better have a wash. You look a right state, the pair of yer. Go over home, go on.’
With the drama at an end, the crowd wandered back to the other end of the street, all voicing their own version of how the events had unfolded and what the exact fate of the two men should be. A bit of rough justice was always a favourite conclusion to such matters in that neighbourhood.
While Katie and Peggy escorted Lil up to her rooms in number eleven, speaking softly and encouragingly, doing their best to keep her calm, Frank was chatting away nineteen to the dozen as he strode along, following Pat into the passageway of number twelve.
‘Like being down the docks a few months back, eh, Pat? Maybe we should do this for a living instead of wasting our time queueing up on the stones every morning.’
‘Who d’yer think you are? Joe Louis?’ Pat snapped without even bothering to look round.
‘Good fighter, him,’ Frank went on, obviously not put off by Pat’s terseness. ‘Reckon he’s got a chance against Max Baer if they do have that fight. What d’you reckon, Pat? D’you think he’s got a chance?’
Pat stepped into the kitchen and just managed to stop himself from making a very crude suggestion as to what Frank could go and do to himself, when he saw Molly sitting at the table.
‘Hello, Dad. Hello, Mr Barber.’ She stood up, frowning at the blood. ‘Here, you two all right?’
‘Yeah, we’re all right, darling. We just stopped a bit o’ trouble, that’s all. But how about you? What you doing in here all by yerself?’
‘I just come in for a drink of water.’ As she made for the door, she just managed a smile. ‘I’d better get back and find out what you two have been up to. See yer later.’
‘Yeah, see yer.’ Pat rolled up his sleeves and turned on the tap.
‘Reckon she’s the only one drinking water in this turning tonight, eh, Pat?’ Frank chuckled. ‘That’s a pretty girl yer’ve got there, and nice too. Yer’ve got every right to be proud of your family. I hope my Theresa grows up as nice mannered.’
Pat stepped back from the sink and signalled with a nod that it was Frank’s turn to wash.
‘Ta, Pat.’ Frank stuck his head under the stream of cold water and rubbed his hands all over his face, making loud spluttering noises as he washed the blood and sweat away. Then he turned off the tap and straightened up. ‘You being, yer know, a family man like, Pat,’ he said, combing his hair back from his face with his fingers, ‘you can help me – if yer wouldn’t mind that is – ’cos I reckon yer’ve got more idea about how women’s minds work. How they think, like. See, I’ve been on me own with me little ’un a bit too long and I’ve kind of forgotten.’
‘What you getting at?’ Pat sounded suspicious.
Frank grinned, his expression surprisingly boyish. ‘What would yer think about me and Edie?’
‘You and Edie?’ Pat sat down at the table. He hadn’t been expecting this.
‘Yeah. See, I’ve been chatting to her a bit lately. When I go along to do the bottling up, she’s usually opening the shop.’ He scratched his head shyly, sending a shower of water across the table. ‘But it’s been a long time since I really, you know, even thought of speaking to a woman in that way. I asked her if I could maybe help her out with any heavy stuff she’s gotta do in the shop, but what I really meant to say was I know how hard it is being alone. And it is hard, believe me. And I wanted to tell her that I thought she was a fine-looking woman. Kind and all. But none of it never come out like that. But now she’s practically out of mourning . . .’ He sat down opposite Pat, and leant forward, resting his forearms on the table. ‘D’you know it’s nearly the year round now?’
‘Must be,’ said Pat quietly, doing up the cuffs of his shirt
‘So, it won’t seem like a liberty, will it, Pat, if I say something a bit more, you know, straightforward like? Like, ask her to, I dunno, the Queen’s for a drink one night maybe.’ He leant even further forward; his forehead was almost touching Pat’s. ‘So, would that be a liberty, d’yer reckon?’
‘No, Frank,’ he said, standing up and clapping him on the shoulder. ‘I don’t reckon it’d seem like a liberty at all, mate. Come on, let’s go and enjoy the rest of this party. And who knows, yer might have a chance to have a few words with Edie now. A bit of a dance even, eh?’
Back outside, Pat crossed the street and went over to Katie, who was just coming out of number eleven.
‘All right?’ he asked, kissing the top of her head.
She smiled up at him. ‘What was that in aid of?’
‘Just counting me blessings.’
Lil stepped out of number eleven, followed by Peggy.
Peggy ducked her head and looked into Lil’s eyes. ‘You’re all right now, ain’t yer love? Happy?’
Lil nodded contentedly, smoothing the mended shawl in her arms as though it were a living creature. ‘I’m happy,’ she cooed.
Katie nudged Peggy and pointed along the street to where Frank Barber was standing, his body angled protectively round Edie Johnson to stop any stray dancers from bumping into her. ‘There’s someone else who looks happy and all.’
‘He’s a decent bloke that Frank Barber,’ Pat said bluntly.
Katie looked at him in astonishment. ‘Eh?’
‘You heard,’ he said.
If Katie hadn’t known him better she would have sworn he was pouting, pouting like a kid; him, big, tough Pat Mehan. ‘I think you need a drink,’ she said, linking her arm through his.
As they made their way back along the street, Katie flashed sideways glances at her husband, trying to figure out what had come over him.
They weren’t even close to the pub yet, but they both heard Mags clearly, screaming at the top of her voice.
Katie let go of Pat’s arm. ‘Whatever’s happening now?’ she wailed, shoving her way past everyone.
‘Mags?’ she puffed, bursting through the door of the pub. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’
‘It’s our Margaret! But there’s nothing wrong!’
Katie could see that now; Mags was rosy and elated, clinging on to Harold on one side of her and Margaret on the other.
‘Her and her husband’s only coming back to the East End, Kate.’
Katie shook her head in wonder at this latest turn of events. ‘Yer don’t say?’ Gratefully she took the glass of beer Harold was handing her. ‘This party’s having more turns than a blinking bed spring,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘Good luck to yer all.’
‘So what’s up then?’ Pat asked, poking his head gingerly round the door. ‘I waited outside for a minute in case it was women’s business. You know.’
‘Margaret and Paul are coming back home,’ Katie explained.
Harold poured a whiskey and held it out to Pat. ‘Didn’t get the work he’d hoped for, see.’ Harold turned to his son-in-law who was making a not very good job of shifting an empty barrel. ‘Did yer, son?’
Paul shook his head, unable to speak with the exertion.
‘And Margaret felt lonely stuck down there, didn’t yer, sweetheart?’ Mags chucked her daughter under the chin. ‘And now she’s expecting!’
Katie threw her arms round Mags and kissed her smack on the lips. ‘I’m that pleased for yer.’
‘I always said this boy was a good ’un,’ Harold added proudly.
Mags narrowed her eyes at her husband as much to say, ‘Liar,’ but what she actually said was, ‘And he plays the banjo lovely. Go on, Paul, go and fetch it, and we can go outside and yer can join in with Jimmo on his squeeze box.’
Relieved that he didn’t have to struggle with the barrel any longer, Paul left it where it was and disappeared into the back room to fetch his banjo.
When they all went outside again, they saw Stephen, with a piece of board laid out at his feet standing next to Jimmo. ‘Right, young ’un,’ he called out, pointing to indicate where Paul should stand, ‘get yerself over here with that banjo. Jimmo’ll tell yer what to play, and I’ll do the rest.’
Nora threw up her hands enthusiastically. ‘He’s going to do his step dance, God love him.’ She nudged Michael and Timmy in front of her to make sure they had a good view. ‘Just watch this, boys, and learn. Your grandfather is the best step dancer this side of the Wicklow Mountains.’
Katie couldn’t bear it, she rolled her eyes and went over to lean against the wall, determined to have her drink in peace.
Jimmo and Paul struck up a jig, the audience clapped and Stephen did his dance. His feet flashed and tapped as he moved with the speed and grace of a man half his age.
When he finished he pulled off his cap and bowed low, acknowledging the applause. Then he turned to his accompanists. ‘Will yer be taking a drink with me? And give me the chance to tell yers all about me beloved Ireland and the dances we used to have there. And rare dances they were.’
‘Yer love flipping Ireland so much, do yer?’ scoffed a grinning, swaying man, his face patched red from the booze. ‘Then why don’t yer get back there? Go on, piss off out of it!’
Stephen stuck up his fists in the classic fighter’s pose and glared about him. ‘Who said that? Come on out and I’ll fight yer. Sure, I’ll fight all o’ yers.’
‘It was him,’ Phoebe piped up, jerking her thumb at the now even redder man. ‘Yer know, him from round Upper North Street what’s married to that ugly old bag. He’s round here just to get away from her, I reckon. Horrible she is. Nearly come to blows with your Kate once. Had a right go at her over the kids.’
‘Is that so?’ Stephen moved forward, his fists still stuck up in front of him.
His would-be opponent, less brave than his belligerent wife, began to back slowly away. Then, moving quicker and quicker, he mumbled to himself, ‘Bugger this for a lark, the whole flaming family’s barmy. All they ever wanna do is fight.’
The man’s departure was met by a chorus of hoots and laughter. Even Katie, still leaning against the wall, caught herself smiling.
‘I bet yer can fight really good, can’t yer, Farvee?’ Michael asked proudly.
‘Sure, wasn’t I the bare knuckle champion back home in Cork in the old days.’
Michael frowned. ‘But I thought yer said yer was a champion singer?’
‘Wasn’t I just?’ he asked, turning to Nora. ‘A champion fighter and a singer o’ songs?’
Nora nodded. ‘A right song thrush, he was.’
‘Go on then, Farvee,’ Danny encouraged him. ‘Give us “Red Sails in the Sunset”,’ he squeezed Liz close to him, ‘so’s we can all have a nice little dance.’
Stephen looked mortified. ‘What, me sing modern rubbish like that? No fear, I only sing the classics. Here, I know, I’ll teach me little grandsons one o’ me old favourites. Ohhhhhh . . . Auntie Mary had a canary, up the leg of her drawers . . .’
This time, Katie did not smile. ‘Teaching my boys that trash,’ she fumed, marching over and dragging her protesting sons away from him. ‘I’m getting fed up with yer, causing trouble and getting the boys at it all the time.’
Stephen looked at Katie for a long moment, seeing the anger in her eyes, then he swallowed down the rest of his stout, picked up the whiskey he had lined up as a chaser and knocked that back too. ‘This suit yer better?’ he asked stiffly. With that he began in a sweetly, lilting voice to sing the opening notes of ‘Danny Boy’.
‘He’s got a good voice on him,’ Pat whispered.
‘The drink’s making yer sentimental,’ Katie snapped spitefully.
‘Sssh,’ Nora hissed at them. ‘Let him finish.’
But Stephen never finished his song. Quite suddenly he stopped, staring over Nora’s shoulder.
Everyone turned to see what had caught his eye.
Katie clapped her hands to the side of her face. ‘I don’t believe this.’
Sean was at the far end of the street by the house; Katie could see, even from where she was standing, that he had been fighting, but he was carrying something in his arms that she couldn’t quite make out.
Katie and Pat ran to see what was wrong with their son, followed closely behind by Nora, then Molly and Danny and the two little ones.
Phoebe let out a long, noisy sigh. ‘That bloke from Upper North Street was right: fighting mad the lot of them.’
Stephen shoved his face close to hers, the liquor on his breath almost choking her. ‘Why don’t you shut up, yer nosy old cow?’
‘And why don’t you bugger off back to Ireland like that bloke said?’ Phoebe sneered. ‘They don’t want yer here poncing off ’em. Any idiot could see that.’
At the other end of the street, Katie had just reached Sean and had realised that the bundle of blood-stained fur that he was cradling in his arms was Rags. When she saw the state the terrier was in, she backed away, her hand covering her mouth to stop herself from vomiting, but as Sean’s shoulders dropped and he crumpled into tears like a little boy, she took a deep breath, pulled herself together and motioned for him to get indoors.
Pat, Danny and Molly gathered round the draining board as Katie bathed Rags’s wounds, watching and praying silently for him to be all right; while Nora, Timmy and Michael sat at the table, glaring silently at Sean as he stared wild-eyed at the floor.
‘He’s gonna be fine.’ Katie gently lifted Rags from the side and set him down on the folded blanket that Molly had put by the Kitchener for him. ‘The poor little thing wasn’t as badly hurt as I thought, but he’s whacked out.’ She turned to Sean. ‘So, what’s the story this time? And let me just guess what stupid, step-dancing, boozing, no-good idiot put the idea of dog fighting into that thick head o’ your’n.’
Breakfast the next day was a solemn affair. Rags was sleeping contentedly on his new bed, but he was the only one who seemed to have anything to be happy about.
‘Yer sure he’s gone?’ Pat asked Nora.
She nodded. ‘He’s taken everything.’
Timmy started crying. ‘But he said he’d go down the Cut with me to find some old pram wheels and make me a cart. He can’t be gone.’
‘And he said he’d buy me a bike.’ Michael’s lip trembled.
‘Ssssh, don’t take on,’ Nora said, pouring herself some more tea. ‘Sure, yer can’t tame a wild spirit; a dreamer like your granddad.’
‘Tame him?’ Katie crashed the side of her fist on to the table making the cups rattle in their saucers. ‘I’d bash the living daylights out of him if I had my way. Dog fighting!’
Sean, who had been sitting staring silently at the floor, much as he had the night before, slowly lifted his head. ‘He never said I should do it. He just said that some blokes he heard of did it sometimes, back in Ireland. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t.’ He shoved his chair back and ran out of the room.
‘Sean!’ hollered Pat.
Katie stuck her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. ‘Leave him, Pat.’
Nora too rose to her feet. ‘Yer shouldn’t be so quick to judge people, Katie. Yer father never meant no harm. He’s a good man.’
‘You trying to say it was my fault he’s gone?’
‘I just want him to come back. I don’t care if he don’t buy me a bike. I miss him, Nanna.’ Michael started weeping noisily, and Molly joined him as she put her arm round his shoulder and tried to comfort him.
‘So do I, love,’ sniffed Nora, dropping back on to her chair. ‘So do I.’
Stephen had been gone for nearly three months and Nora still hadn’t resigned herself to the fact that he wasn’t coming back. She hadn’t really had one decent night’s sleep since he’d left, but the oppressively hot August nights were making her even more restless. The weather had been in the eighties for over a week now, and, from how sticky it was, it felt as though there was going to be yet another thunderstorm.
It was half past three when Nora looked at the clock. It was no good lying there staring up at the ceiling, she told herself, she might as well make herself a cup of tea. So as not to wake the boys, Nora slipped into the kitchen in her bare feet and set the kettle on to boil.
She was draining her third cup and wondering whether to freshen up the pot again, when she heard a loud banging outside in the street.
Grabbing her coat from the banister and throwing it on over her nightdress, Nora cautiously opened the street door. It took her a moment to focus in the dim, pre-dawn light, but then she saw what all the row was about.
It was the police – two carloads of them – and they were bashing on the Miltons’ front door. Nora wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been the Lanes’ house they were trying to get into, but whatever would they want with the Miltons?
In the time it took for Nora to run next door to fetch Pat and Katie, all the doors in the street were open and everyone was on their street doorsteps to witness the sight of Mr Milton being dragged away by the police, while Ellen screamed at them not to take her Edwin away.
‘Edwin!’ they all heard Phoebe yell at the top of her voice. ‘No wonder he never told no one his sodding name.’
Edwin Milton was thrown into the back of one of the cars and the police drove him off into the night.
Katie turned and looked up at Pat. ‘I’ll have to go over there and see if I can do anything.’
‘Too late,’ said Pat. ‘She’s gone back in and shut her door.’
‘Perhaps it’d be better in the morning, eh?’ Nora said with a sad shake of her head. ‘The poor girl probably wants a bit of time to talk to her kids.’
But when Katie went over to number three the next morning there was nothing she, or anyone else, could do. The house was empty; Ellen Milton and her children had disappeared.
Phoebe, of course, had the solution to the mystery. ‘That weren’t no normal moonlight flit, you mark my words. She’d got a load more gear off the tally man, so’s I heard,’ she said, leaning against the wall as Katie squinted through the window into the empty front room. ‘After she’d paid off all that other lot. But she only made one payment on all the new stuff, then pawned the lot and went and sold the pawn ticket.’
Katie rapped on the door again. ‘D’you have to speak ill of everyone?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘Why not? They ain’t bleed’n dead, are they?’ Phoebe snorted.
Sooky, breathless from the effort of dragging her flabby body along at more than a snail’s pace, came gasping to a halt beside them. ‘Guess what I just heard down the market? I went down there special to see if anyone knew anything,’ she added proudly. ‘It’s something to do with Laney.’ She rolled her eyes in the direction of number six. ‘He’s only gone and grassed Milton to the law to save himself. They was involved in some big—’
‘I ain’t standing here listening to your poison,’ Katie interrupted her. She looked the two women up and down, turned on her heel and left them to their gossip.
Katie winced as though she had been struck across the face when she heard Phoebe call after her: ‘Dunno what she’s so cocky about, Sook. Drove her own father away, she did. Hard-faced cow.’