Cissie sat in the Sabberton Arms, oblivious of her surroundings, which was probably not a bad thing, as most of the people there were acting more like guests at a wedding breakfast than at her husband’s funeral. They were eating, drinking, chattering loudly, even singing and laughing at one another’s feeble jokes. It was as though they were intent on marking and celebrating their own good fortune at being alive, at not being planted six feet under as Davy Flowers had just been.
But although they were acting that way with one another, most of those present seemed far more reluctant to include Cissie in their antics, or even to go over and speak to her. It wasn’t that they were deliberately ignoring her, or even trying to escape the embarrassment of not knowing what to say in such a situation, no, it was more to do with them getting the message that it wasn’t their place to do so. It was being made very clear, what with the interest Big Bill Turner was so obviously showing in Cissie from the other side of the pub, that they were not important enough to intrude on the young widow. Turner, everyone knew, always took precedence in such a situation.
But sitting there alone with her two little ones didn’t seem to bother Cissie Flowers. In fact, she hadn’t even noticed. Apart from a peremptory nod in recognition of each brief paying of respect from her neighbours before they hurried back to the bar for another free glass of whatever took their fancy – an opportunity definitely not to be missed, even if they didn’t have a clue as to how Cissie would be footing the bill – she seemed to be a million miles away. She just held on to her children’s hands, apparently feeling, hearing and seeing nothing, the shock of burying her husband having sent the usually laughing, outgoing Cissie into a hollow-eyed trance.
Lil, on the other hand, was taking the whole thing in a different way entirely. Either she wasn’t shocked in the least at having just buried her son, or, if she was, she was certainly making a very good job of hiding the fact.
‘I don’t mind if I do,’ Lil twittered as she took a cigarette from the broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek who had been standing beside Big Bill Turner at the graveside. ‘I’ll just have a little pinch of me snuff for now, and I’ll have this later on,’ she added, tucking the Player’s Navy Cut behind her ear.
On the other side of the lounge bar, Matty was gently peeling Cissie’s icy fingers from around his hand. He kissed her warily on the cheek and said softly, ‘I’m just gonna see Nanna a minute, Mum.’
He might have been only four and a half years old, but Matty was as bright as a button; he was desperate for the lavatory but understood that he shouldn’t disturb his mum.
He wasn’t sure why or what, but he just knew that something was wrong, more wrong even than when his puppy had got knocked down in St Paul’s Road and the man had taken it away to make it better, but had never brought it back to him.
Cissie nodded blankly as Matty scrambled down from the bench that ran along the length of the pub wall. The roughly patterned upholstery scratched the back of his bare legs as he slid to the ground, making him wince, but he said nothing. Instead, he smiled reassuringly at his little sister, who was sitting tucked into her mother’s side, anxiously sucking her thumb, then, quietly, he began struggling to make his way through the sea of adult legs in his effort to try to find Lil in the crowded pub. All the time he repeated over and over in his head, ‘Nan’ll know where to go. Nan’ll know where to go.’
Matty eventually found his grandmother wreathed in a fug of smoke and whisky fumes. She was leaning across the polished wooden counter complaining to the barmaid about Ethel and Dick Bennett, two of her next-door neighbours from Linman Street.
Lil wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Typical of that pair,’ she sneered. ‘Couldn’t manage to find their sodding way to the cemetery to see my boy buried, could they? No, course they couldn’t. But the Sabberton Arms? Well, that’s a different matter, ain’t it? They could find this place all right. Find it in the bleed’n dark with their eyes shut and a bag over their heads. Crafty rotten bleeders.’
The barmaid, brought in especially for the funeral, had had Davy’s family all pointed out to her by the landlord so she knew who Lil was, but she wasn’t sure who this Ethel and Dick Bennett were that Lil was going on about. ‘Elderly couple, are they?’ she asked without looking up from the glass she was drying, her voice professionally friendly.
Lil gulped down another mouthful of scotch and rolled her eyes. ‘Not that much older than me if yer must know.’
‘Well, p’raps it was too far for ’em then, eh?’ the barmaid suggested with a recklessness that came from not knowing Lil’s reputation. ‘I mean,’ she went on, ‘it’s a fair old trot down to Southern Grove for someone of your age, ain’t it, dear?’
‘You cheeky bloody mare!’ Lil began, but the barmaid was saved from the full benefit of one of Lil’s famous tongue-lashings by Matty arriving on the scene.
The little boy tugged warily at the skirt of his grandmother’s black dress. He had never been inside anywhere like the Sabberton Arms before, and especially not on a confusing day like this. It was bad enough being desperate for the lav, but the smell and the press of so many bodies all towering above him was making him feel sick as well.
‘Nan,’ he whispered, ‘please, I really wanna wee. Can yer take me? I wanted to go when we was at that other place before. I told Mum, but she must’ve forgot.’ He wriggled with discomfort. ‘I think she’s a bit sad. But I’ve really gotta go, Nan.’
‘Don’t bother me now, boy,’ Lil snapped without looking down at him. ‘Can’t yer see yer nanna’s busy?’
Lil held out her glass to the barmaid for a refill, still without even bothering to meet her grandson’s anxious stare. Her glass replenished, Lil disappeared into the smoky throng leaving Matty to get on with it.
Matty squirmed, he was going to wet himself, he just knew it, and in front of all these people. His face crumpled. He would die of shame.
Shaking her head in disgust at Lil’s callousness, the barmaid wiped her hands on the glass cloth, lifted the flap in the counter, and stepped round to where Matty was standing sniffling quietly to himself.
‘Come on, love,’ she said kindly, ‘you come with me eh? I’ll take yer to the one out the back.’ She dabbed at Matty’s cheeks with the hem of her apron and looked into his sad blue eyes. ‘You’ve got smashing eyes, yer know, little ’un. Just like yer mum’s. Cissie Flowers is yer mum, ain’t she?’
Matty nodded miserably as the barmaid ushered him behind the bar.
‘Yer mustn’t take no notice of yer nan,’ she said without much conviction, leading him by the hand through to the back kitchen. ‘She’s upset, see. It’s one of them days when people get themselves all worked up and don’t know what they’re saying. But she’ll be all right later on, you just see if she ain’t.’
‘I wish me dad was here,’ Matty whispered, as much to himself as to the barmaid, as he closed the lavatory door modestly behind him.
The barmaid was glad the poor little kid had shut himself in the dingy, cramped cubicle. Maybe the door would muffle the sound of his grandmother’s raucous shouts and laughter that were now echoing through from the bar.
‘My Davy was a right little bugger, Gawd rest his soul,’ Lil was yelling at Ted Johnson, another one of her neighbours from Linman Street, the whisky making her even louder and more aggressive than usual.
‘I might have gone mutton when I was in the trenches, Lilly Prentice, but yer don’t need a sodding foghorn,’ Ted replied, leaning as far back from her as the crush would allow. ‘The whole of bleed’n Poplar must be able to hear yer, the way yer hollering and hooting. Now why don’t yer get yerself over to that table, get a bit of grub down yer to sober yourself up, then go and sit with that daughter-in-law of your’n? She looks in a right old state, poor little thing.’ With a sneer of contempt at this man who was daring to tell her what to do, Lil went off to bother someone else.
She was just squeezing by the door when it burst open and a scabby-kneed boy of about nine years old launched himself past her into the bar. He was waving the strips of printed paper carrying the latest dog-racing results that he touted around the local pubs.
‘Dog-inner! Dog-inner!’ came his familiar abbreviated yell. And, just as familiar, came the reply from one of the wags propping up the bar: ‘No, son, there ain’t no dog in ’ere.’ He looked around, making sure he had an audience. ‘He’s outside having a piss, ain’t he!’
‘Blimey, I ain’t never heard that one before, mister,’ the boy snapped back sarcastically, backing away just in time to avoid the empty cigarette packet the man had aimed at his head. Peals of drunken laughter reverberated around the room. The boy felt humiliated. It was bad enough putting up with abuse from the usual afternoon gaggle of old men and miserable-looking victims of the slump, nursing their warm half-pints of mild, but being confronted by a pub full of rich-looking blokes and fancy women, all laughing at him as though he was some sort of sideshow was too big a price to pay for the few coppers he earned from his round. They could stuff the results if that was their attitude.
He turned away and started back towards the door, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. He spun round to see what further shame the man wanted to heap on him. But it wasn’t the man, it was Cissie. She was standing behind him with young Joyce still gripping her hand.
‘Why don’t you all leave the kid alone?’ she said flatly, her eyes fixed on the surprised-looking boy. ‘Yer know the poor little bugger’s only doing it to earn a few shillings to help out his mum since his dad…’ Cissie’s words were barely audible as she continued. ‘…since his dad got killed down the docks.’
Cissie ushered the boy back towards the bar, lifted her chin and stared about her. ‘What, don’t no one wanna know how the dogs done today?’
Big Bill Turner stepped forward from the crowd at the bar. He sank his hand deep into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of coins.
‘Here y’are, kiddo,’ he said loudly, picking out a shiny half-crown. ‘Here’s a tosheroon for yer, and I’m sure there’s plenty of other fellers in here what’ll be only too glad to buy all the rest of them results off yer.’ He looked about him, watching as men rummaged through their pockets for loose change. ‘And,’ he added meaningfully, ‘I reckon they’ll give you a couple of bob extra for yer to take home to yer mum and all.’
Without a word, wallets were taken from inside pockets as, to a man, Turner’s friends and colleagues hurriedly made sure they didn’t look cheap in front of him. The man who had thrown the cigarette carton being particularly careful to make sure that Turner saw him hand over a crisp ten-shilling note.
The delighted, if astonished, child hastily stuffed his loot into the pockets of his ragged jacket and made a run for it before they all came to their senses and demanded their money back, only pausing at the door to call a hurried thank you to Turner. Just wait till he told his mum and his little brother; there’d be fish and chips all round tonight.
Cissie also wanted to express her gratitude to Turner. ‘Thanks, Mr Turner. That was kind of yer,’ she said, averting her eyes as she sat back down and settled Joyce next to her on the bench.
‘It’s Bill. Call me Bill,’ Ethel Bennett, her ears practically, flapping with amazement, heard Turner reply before he went back to the counter to speak to the barmaid.
Ethel watched his progress with open-mouthed fascination as he finished his business at the bar then returned to where Cissie was sitting.
‘Like I said before, I’m sorry for your trouble, Mrs Flowers,’ Turner said as the barmaid appeared at his side.
‘Here’s the drinks you ordered, Mr Turner.’
‘All right if she puts ’em down there on the table?’ Turner asked Cissie.
Cissie nodded distractedly.
The barmaid put the tray in front of Cissie and disappeared back to the bar.
‘That’s what me old Irish granny used to say at times like these, yer know, Mrs Flowers. “I’m sorry for your trouble,” she’d say. And I wanted to say it too, cos what else can yer say at a time like this?’
‘Thanks,’ she said quietly.
‘Mind if I join yer for a bit?’
Cissie said nothing, she just lifted Joyce on to her lap, making space for him on the bench next to her.
Matty, who had just fought his way back from the lavatory in the barmaid’s wake, stood watchfully by his mum’s side, wondering what new turn of events this could be. He had never seen this big, red-faced man before, and he didn’t know if he liked him being so friendly with his mum. But he knew he wasn’t allowed to interrupt when grown-ups were talking, so he said nothing.
‘I hope I got the right drinks for the kids,’ Turner said, handing Matty and Joyce each a green bottle with a straw poking from the top. He smiled, making his face crease into deep folds. ‘Mind you, all little chavvies like a drop of lemonade, don’t they?’
‘Say ta,’ Cissie said automatically.
Cautiously, Matty drew his bottle towards him. He looked at his mum to make sure it was OK to start, but she wasn’t even looking at him, so he just thanked the man, as he had been told, and then clamped the straw between his lips.
‘That’s all right, son, yer don’t have to thank me.’
Matty pulled away as Turner reached out to ruffle his hair.
‘I’d have killed for a bottle of lemonade when I was a nipper,’ Turner said, not seeming to notice, or maybe to mind, Matty’s wariness.
‘Did yer see that, Myrtle?’ Ethel gasped, jerking her head towards Cissie’s table. ‘Did yer? Bold as bleed’n brass, if yer don’t mind.’
‘Disgusting,’ Myrtle agreed. ‘And at her husband’s funeral.’
The two women, glasses of stout gripped firmly in front of them, shook their heads disapprovingly at the sight of the young widow and her two children barefacedly accepting hospitality from the likes of Big Bill Turner.
‘What, jealous because the man’s decent enough to show his respects to me daughter-in-law, are yer?’ Lil hissed into Ethel’s ear as she made her unsteady way past them towards where Cissie and Turner were sitting. She turned her head and looked her neighbours up and down. ‘Or is it cos yer know he wouldn’t look twice at anyone in your sodding ugly crew of a family?’
With a final sneering appraisal of her two elderly neighbours, Lil turned her back on them and concentrated on her goal.
‘Hello, Mr Turner,’ she simpered, shoving Matty out of the way and plonking herself unceremoniously on to the bench. ‘We’re right chuffed yer found time to come.’ She dropped her chin and added pitifully, ‘It helps to know that people are around at sad times like this.’
Feeling unable to bear the company of her mother-in-law, who always found a way to upset or annoy her at the best of times, Cissie tried to stand up but, with Joyce on her lap, she could hardly move let alone escape from Lil’s whining voice. She could have got out if Turner had moved, but he appeared to have no intention of shifting himself. To make matters worse, Ethel and Myrtle, who had been hovering close by, had now made their way right over to the table and were standing there, gawping at her with undisguised interest.
Cissie rubbed her face with her hands. What on earth did those two old cows want with her?
Ethel smiled, a rare and not very pleasant sight, showing her uneven brown teeth. ‘Hello, Mr Turner,’ she began, ‘me and me old mate Myrtle here was just saying what an honour it is for young Cissie to have you at her husband’s funeral like this.’
Matty, the straw still firmly clenched between his lips, frowned to himself. A funeral? Wasn’t that when people were dead? He’d have to remember to ask his mum about it later on. He’d have asked her now but his nan didn’t look very happy, and he knew better than to do anything that might upset her such as asking questions.
Lil, in fact, wasn’t so much unhappy as furious. She was scowling, scowling horribly at Ethel, narrowing her eyes at the woman’s effrontery for daring to interrupt when she was speaking to Turner. But Lil would have her back later on all right, she was sure of that. She’d find a way to get the old bag. Pasting a grieving look on her face, Lil dabbed at her bone-dry cheeks with her handkerchief and whispered in a cracked little voice, ‘Yes, she’s right, Mr Turner, it’s a real honour to have yer here.’
‘And yer do know, Cis,’ Ethel went on, reaching across the table and patting Cissie’s hand, ‘if there’s anything you ever need, love, anything at all, you’ve only gotta ask me or my Dick and it’s as good as done, darling. Good as done.’
‘That’s right neighbourly of yer, Ethel,’ Lil sighed pathetically. ‘We’ll bear that in mind, won’t we, Cissie?’ Lil would have smacked the stupid grin off the old trout’s gob if Turner hadn’t been there.
‘Being good to yer neighbours,’ Turner said with an approving nod. ‘I like that. I like to see people looking after their own.’ He raised his hand in the air and gestured with an almost imperceptible flick of his fingers. A tall broad-shouldered man immediately appeared by his side.
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Take these two ladies,’ he said, indicating Ethel and Myrtle with a lift of his chin, ‘over to the bar, Bernie, and make sure they have whatever they fancy.’
The two delighted women followed their new-found benefactor with much proud fluttering of their eyes and hands, making sure that everyone in the pub got a good look at them being treated by a friend of Big Bill Turner’s.
Turner took a swallow from his glass and shook his head. ‘I reckoned you didn’t need them pair giving you earache on a day like this, Mrs Flowers.’
Cissie slowly raised her eyes and looked levelly at Turner. ‘I can look after meself, ta. I don’t need no one sorting me out.’
Lil slid her hand under the table and squeezed hard on the soft flesh of Cissie’s inner thigh. She smiled winningly at Turner. ‘Yer don’t wanna mind me daughter-in-law, Mr Turner. Only she’s upset like, ain’t she?’
‘If yer don’t mind, Lil,’ Cissie said evenly, ‘I’d like you to get yer hand off my leg and stop pinching me. Now.’
Lil flashed Turner another smile. ‘Upset,’ she mouthed silently.
Turner appeared totally unperturbed by the obviously uneasy relationship between Cissie and Lil, and made no effort to move away from the table and leave them to it. ‘Looks like there’s a few people wanna speak to you, Mrs Flowers,’ he said smoothly, indicating the group of people lurking around the table with his now almost empty glass.
Lil gave another simpering smile. ‘That’ll be you treating Ethel and Myrtle like that. They’ll all be offering my Cissie all kinds of help just to impress you, Mr Turner.’
Cissie closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. Why was she sitting here listening to Lil carrying on like this when all she wanted to do was go home and go to bed? She wanted to get away from all of this.
She turned to ask Turner to move when a woman’s voice said softly, ‘Cis, I don’t wanna disturb yer, or nothing.’
‘Not much,’ sniped Lil sarcastically, glaring up at Gladys Mills.
Gladys wouldn’t let Lil get to her. Instead of responding to her nastiness, she just kept on speaking to Cissie. ‘I only wondered, Cis, you know, if there’s anything, anything at all I can do for yer.’
Cissie looked up, pleased to see her friend from number four. ‘Yer all right, Glad. Thanks for asking, but I’ll be fine.’
Gladys tipped her head towards Matty. ‘How about the little ones?’
Cissie looked at her children as though only just registering that they were still there with her.
‘Let me take them and get ’em a bite to eat eh?’ Gladys flashed a look at Turner as she held out her hands to Matty and Joyce. ‘There’s loads of food over there, but I’ll bet neither of ’em has had a thing past their lips ’cept that lemonade, have they? They must be starving.’
Turner leant back in his seat and watched, eyebrows raised, as the children clambered down from the bench to go with Gladys. He wasn’t used to being treated like that. He didn’t like it. But now wasn’t the time to react. The kids seemed only too pleased to be going off with their mum’s friend, so he wasn’t going to cause trouble and risk having them bawling their heads off. Lil, he noted with interest, obviously wasn’t so impressed by the woman as her grandchildren had been. She’d stood up and was hissing something into Gladys’s ear. He couldn’t make out the words but it was obvious that she was wild about something.
‘Don’t worry about me having no grub, will yer, Gladys Mills?’ she was sniping spitefully. ‘I mean, I’m only Davy’s bloody mother, ain’t I?’
Gladys didn’t rise to it, she just led the children away, chattering encouragingly to them about all the tasty bits of food they could have.
Turner smiled inwardly as Lil sat down. She was defeated for the moment, but she had a look on her face that he recognised all too well. He knew, as plain as night followed day, that Gladys had been marked down for future reference by Davy’s vindictive old cow of a mother. She was a woman after his own heart.
‘She seems a decent sort of a person,’ Turner said to Lil without a trace of irony, before swallowing the last of his drink. ‘I always approve of people looking out for one another. Good to see it. Very good.’ He sat back to see what his bait attracted. He didn’t have to wait long.
‘Looking out for one another?’ Lil gasped incredulously, forgetting for the moment her poor grieving mother act. ‘Do me a favour. What could she do to help anyone? Ernie, that old man of her’n, ain’t done a stroke of work in bleed’n years, and she’s having to work her fingers to the bone, sodding early morning cleaning. Can’t even help herself, that one, let alone no other bugger!’
‘It ain’t Ernie’s fault there’s no work about,’ Cissie said quietly. ‘And Gladys has been a good friend to me over the years.’
‘Fat lot of good friendship is when there’s no money coming in,’ Lil snorted.
‘I’ve always appreciated friendship and loyalty, as a matter of fact,’ Turner said.
‘Aw yeah,’ agreed Lil hurriedly, coming back to her senses and realising what she’d said. ‘Me too, Mr Turner. I mean, there’s nothing like friendship, is there now? I’ve always said that, you ask Cissie if I ain’t. Ain’t that right, Cissie? I’ve always said it.’
‘Have yer? I dunno about that.’ Cissie shook her head in wonder at her mother-in-law’s gall. ‘But I know something. That girl ain’t got a pot, but she’d still give anyone the last slice of bread off her table if they asked for it.’
Cissie picked up her bag and pushed the table away from her to make room so that she could stand up. ‘Now, if you don’t mind…’
‘Something wrong?’ asked Turner, reaching out his arm to block her way. He wasn’t used to people leaving until he decided it was time for them to go.
‘No, nothing’s wrong. Apart from me husband being dead and buried.’ Cissie had had enough of this farce.
‘Don’t be like that, sweetheart. I only wondered if something was up.’
‘And if something was up, why would I tell you, a complete stranger? Now, like I said, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get out.’
‘Why?’
‘If you must know, I’m gonna thank everyone for coming, and tell them that I’m sure they’re all very kind but, before anyone else starts offering me any help, I want ’em all to know that me and my kids can manage just fine.’
‘Don’t be so hasty, Cis,’ Lil said, lowering her voice and grabbing Cissie by the arm. ‘You don’t know yet how we’re gonna manage, do you? How we’re gonna get by.’
Cissie shook off Lil’s grip and again tried to get past Turner.
‘Hello there.’ A bleary-eyed, brassy-looking woman in her late thirties, with unnaturally orange-red hair, stuck her hand across the table at Cissie. ‘I was sorry to hear about Davy.’
Frowning, Cissie took the offered hand and nodded her thanks. Who was this woman who knew her husband? She stank of booze and stale perfume, and her nails looked like scarlet painted talons. ‘I don’t think I know yer, do I?’
‘Sorry. Course yer don’t. I’m Eileen, Eileen Clayton. I’m a friend of Bill’s. Ain’t that right, Bill?’
Without warning, Turner slipped his arm along the bench, took Cissie’s hand from Eileen’s, and jerked Cissie roughly back down on to the seat.
Furious at such presumption, Cissie tried to pull her hand away, but Turner wouldn’t let go. He held her hand – and her gaze – for a long, tense moment.
Cissie’s mouth went dry. What the hell did this man think he was doing?
Then, just as unexpectedly, Turner let her go.
He stood up and leant across the table towards Eileen. In a menacingly low voice he said, ‘If you know what’s good for you, sweetheart, I reckon you should keep that trap o’ your’n shut. Now why don’t yer just clear off and leave Mrs Flowers in peace? Go on, there’s a good girl.’
Eileen opened her mouth as if to speak, then, thinking better of it, she shrugged defeatedly and, with a falsely carefree laugh, she stepped away from the table. But she didn’t move far, she just leant back against the wall close to Cissie and sullenly sipped at her drink.
Turner didn’t sit back down, he just stared at Eileen, his curled lip showing his distaste. ‘That’s it, yer silly cow, pour more of that gear down yer gullet. You’ll only need a few more and you’ll be flat on yer back, then we can all get a bit of peace.’ Ignoring Lil completely, Turner pushed past her and made his way over to the bar without a word of apology or explanation to any of them.
Looking nervously about her to see if anyone had witnessed the way Turner had treated her, Lil made a great show of patting her hair into place. ‘I’m just gonna go to the lavvy, Cis. You can fetch me a nice little drink while I’m gone. Something to steady me poor old nerves.’
Cissie didn’t even bother to reply. She just sat there feeling angry; and lonelier and sadder than ever.
With both Turner and Lil out of the way, Eileen sidled back to the bench. She looked Cissie up and down. ‘Yer not a bad-looking girl,’ she slurred, leaning unsteadily against the table. ‘Nice black hair. Dyed is it?’
‘No. It’s not.’ Cissie wouldn’t meet the woman’s gaze, she just stared into her still-full glass of port and lemon. Why couldn’t all these people just leave her alone? Why, if they felt they had to do something, couldn’t they be like Gladys and just do things that would actually help? Why did they all keep pestering her? Going on at her? Why?
Either Eileen wasn’t very sensitive to other people’s moods, or she was simply choosing to ignore Cissie’s patently obvious wish to be left alone. She sat down and pressed herself close to Cissie, as though she were about to tell her a secret. She went to open her mouth to speak, but then changed her mind and looked nervously over her shoulder at Turner. Being a good six inches taller than everyone around him, Eileen could see him clearly as he stood at the crowded bar, surrounded by a mob of grovelling hangers-on. She hesitated for just a moment, then, with a shrug of resignation, she returned her attention to Cissie.
‘If you ever need to talk or anything,’ she muttered, her voice thick with drink, ‘I’d be only too pleased to listen. I’ve been through it all myself, see.’ Eileen dug into her battered crocodile handbag and pulled out a dainty gold-covered note-pad. ‘He bought me this,’ she said, slipping a slim, gold propelling pencil from a slot in the side. She scribbled something down and tore the sheet of paper from the pad. ‘This is where I live,’ she said handing it to Cissie. ‘Remember what I said: any time. I’ve been through it all.’
‘What would I wanna talk to you for?’ Cissie wasn’t being rude, she honestly didn’t understand what she and this whorey-looking woman could possibly have in common.
Eileen checked over her shoulder again. She saw Turner was still looking at her. ‘Like I said,’ she breathed, her eyes fixed on Turner. ‘I’ve been through it all meself.’
Cissie too was now looking at Turner. His face was like a mask as he stared back at them. She couldn’t understand what this woman was going on about? And how did she know Davy? ‘What, you’re a widow, yer mean?’ she asked, trying to make sense of it all. ‘Is that what yer’ve been through?’
‘Not exactly,’ Eileen replied with a sardonic laugh. ‘Now,’ she insisted, ‘stick that bit of paper in yer bag a bit lively. We don’t want no one knowing our business, now do we?’
With that, Eileen stood up and moved off into the crowd without another word.
Cissie wasn’t left alone for long to muse over the curious exchange; Lil, wiping her hands down the front of her black dress, had reappeared from the lavatory. ‘I saw that old tart with the red hair – what was her name? Eileen? – back talking to yer again. What did she want?’
‘Nothing.’ Cissie tucked Eileen Clayton’s address into her pocket. She wasn’t sure why exactly, but she didn’t want her mother-in-law to know she had it.
‘Well, that Big Bill Turner don’t like her. That’s obvious. So you’d better not let him see yer talking to her no more.’
Cissie gasped at her audacity. ‘I don’t think I heard you right, did I, Lil? D’you mind repeating that?’
‘Ssshhh,’ Lil hissed, flapping her hand about in Cissie’s face. ‘Look sharp, he’s gonna say something.’
Cissie twisted round to see that a space had been cleared around Turner so that everyone had a good view of him.
Tapping the ash from his cigar on to the floor, Turner pulled himself up to his full height and began speaking. ‘I wanna start off by saying what a very sad occasion this is.’ Murmurs of agreement buzzed around the bar.
‘And I wanna say how nice, how very nice, it’s been to see all Mrs Flowers’ friends and neighbours showing their respect and concern by turning up here today, and by the generous offers to help the little lady at such a difficult time.’
A sense of smug pleasure at being congratulated by someone as important as Big Bill Turner replaced the murmuring.
‘But I know these are hard times for everyone.’ Turner paused, waiting for the edgy, unsure laughter to begin at his joke. Satisfied with the response, he raised his hand immediately to crush it. He grinned. ‘Well, hard times for some, I should say.’ More uneasy laughter rippled around the bar.
‘So I don’t want no one worrying about Mrs Flowers and her young ’uns as far as money for this little lot is concerned. I’m footing the bill for this funeral.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the landlord. ‘Including all the booze. So you can swallow pints till yer boots are overflowing.’
This time the laughter came easier.
He continued. ‘I’m gonna show everyone that we know how to look after our own in the East End. And that’s why I also wanna say that there’ll be no worry about Mrs Flowers wanting for anything in the future neither. I’m gonna see to that personally. Now, come on, drink up to Davy Flowers.’
He raised his glass in salute and then downed his drink in a single gulp. ‘And there’s plenty more where that come from!’
Under cover of the loud clapping and shouts of approval, Cissie turned to her mother-in-law. ‘What do you know about this, Lil?’ she demanded.
Lil rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t start, girl. Yer wanna show yer appreciation, not start bleed’n moaning. Turner’s a powerful bloke. Rich and all.’ She took a swig of scotch, and giggled happily to herself. ‘He’s a bloke what could make my old age very comfortable. Very comfortable indeed.’
Cissie was too stunned by her mother-in-law’s cold-blooded greed to even think of a reply. She just sat there as a series of men and women, most of whom Cissie had never met before, but who all seemed very keen that Turner should see their generosity, came over to her table and pledged their ostentatious offers of help. Every single one of them made sure that she realised they weren’t treading on Mr Turner’s toes – his help took precedence, of course, that went without saying – but they wanted her to know that they were there if ever she needed them. And these weren’t the empty gestures made by Ethel and Myrtle, these were offers supported by bulging wallets.
Lil beamed with pleasure at her son’s widow being paid court by such well-to-do people, especially as it was so obviously driving Ethel and Myrtle to distraction to see her receiving so much attention. They were livid at being relegated to the role of poor relations, and began sharpening their knives.
Ethel stabbed her thumb in Turner’s direction. ‘Yer do know who that is, don’t yer?’ she asked Myrtle quite unnecessarily. ‘Only the biggest crook this side of the West End.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ concurred Myrtle. ‘And I know who his old woman is and all.’ She sniggered nastily. ‘I wonder what Moe Turner would have to say if she could see him now, hanging around with the bleed’n merry widow?’
‘I dunno about what she’d say to him,’ Ethel sneered, ‘but I reckon Moe would have that Cissie’s head right off her shoulders. No shame, some women. No shame at all.’ She held up her empty glass. ‘Come on,’ she urged Myrtle, ‘drink up for Gawd sake. You don’t get free booze every day of the week.’
But when Ethel reached the counter she was disappointed. She was just about to order another gin, when Turner slapped his hand on the counter and called loudly, ‘Right then everybody, Mrs Flowers’ll be wanting to get off home, so I reckon it’s about time all you good people did the same.’
With that, he set his wide-brimmed hat on his slicked-back greying hair, threw his topcoat over his arm and strode over to the door. He waited for someone to open it for him, then turned round, looked in Cissie’s direction and raised his hat. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Mrs Flowers.’
Outside, the pavement was soon as crowded as the pub had been, full of people milling around, talking and, having got the taste, making arrangements to move on elsewhere to another pub.
The man who had kept Lil supplied with cigarettes was talking to Turner.
‘Shall I get back to the office, boss,’ he asked, ‘or is there anything you want me to do first?’
Turner took a silver case from his inside pocket and snapped it open. The other man had a match lit and at the ready before Turner had even put the cigarette in his mouth.
‘No, don’t go back to the office just yet, Bernie. I’ve got a little errand I want yer to run for me first.’ Turner took in a lungful of smoke then blew it in a lavender stream from his nostrils. ‘I wanna know what that slag Plains is up to. And I wanna know what we’re gonna do about Flowers’ pitch.’
‘Shall I take a few of the lads with me, Bill?’
‘No.’ Turner narrowed his eyes as he took another drag, then exhaled slowly. ‘Let’s just see what the bastard does first.’ He jabbed the cigarette at Bernie, using it to emphasise the importance of what he was saying. ‘I don’t want nothing upsetting that little widow lady, right?’
Bernie nodded to show he understood.
‘I’m gonna let her get over the shock first, see? Then I’m gonna make me move.’
‘You was always the gentleman, Bill,’ Bernie laughed. ‘But maybe I should take a set of knuckles with me. Just in case, eh?’
It was Turner who laughed this time. ‘And a razor and all if yer’ve got any sense. I mean, we don’t want yer going out naked or nothing, now do we?’
‘Excuse me.’ Gladys Mills, holding Matty and Joyce’s hands, was easing her way through the throng. She pushed past Bernie but paused next to Turner.
Leaning close so that only he could hear, she said to him, ‘We don’t need the likes of you round here, Turner. You don’t impress me, or Cissie, yer know. She’s disgusted with that little performance in there. She’s sitting there, crying her eyes out. So just leave her alone and don’t waste your time.’ Gladys then smiled down at the children. ‘Come on, darlings, let’s get home and put the kettle on for Mummy. She’ll be gasping for a nice cup o’ tea.’
She stared at Turner for a long, calm moment. ‘She’ll need to get the nasty taste out of her mouth.’
With that, Gladys marched forward with the children beside her.
‘Who the hell does she—’
‘Leave it, Bern.’ Turner put a steadying hand on the man’s arm and ground out his cigarette beneath his heel. ‘Give ’em a few weeks,’ he grinned, ‘and they’ll be begging me for help. Now, I thought you had a job to do.’