Making a decision, she stood up. ‘Is there a phone here?’
Evander pointed to the hallway. ‘Out there.’
‘I’ll phone up Tommy. He can take me, Kerry and Evander back to my place. You two can do what you like with these. They’re pieces of shite and I don’t care what happens to them.’
Going to Skip, she lifted his face towards her with one perfectly manicured finger. Looking into his eyes, she said, ‘You made your big mistake when you touched my sister. No one, I don’t care who they’re related to, ever touches me or mine.’
Walking outside to the hall to telephone Tommy, it occurred to her that phoning him this way was just like old times.
It seemed the past was always there like a spectre, waiting to rise up and catch you unawares when you least expected it.
In the end Tommy had stayed to help dispose of the three Americans under fifty tons of concrete that was due to be poured into the footings of the new Ford plant at Dagenham. Briony drove back to her house with a frightened Evander, his few belongings, and a shocked and subdued Kerry. When they got to Briony’s house, Liselle had already gone up to bed and Briony was secretly grateful for this. It was four-thirty in the morning. The three new arrivals were wide awake, and quiet. Too quiet.
Kerry helped herself to a large neat vodka and Briony poured herself and Evander large brandies. She surveyed the man in front of her for a good while.
Evander looked like a beaten man, but Briony guessed he had looked like that for a long time. It was in his eyes, his stance, in those clawed and deformed hands that had trouble holding on to the balloon-shaped glass.
Finishing her drink silently, Briony took Kerry and tucked her up in bed. She had no fears about Evander running off, he would be easy enough to find. Kevin’s overenthusiasm all those years ago would guarantee that.
She checked Kerry’s face over and, satisfied it was just cuts and bruises, went back down to the room where she had left Evander. Pouring them both another drink, his in a tall tumbler this time, she sat opposite him and spoke.
‘You realise those men are dead, don’t you?’
Her matter-of-fact voice frightened Evander. She had changed, this Briony. He remembered her as softer, younger admittedly, but softer inside.
He nodded in answer to her question and Briony sighed loudly.
‘In a way, I can see your point of view. I know you must have found it very hard over the years. I also realise that the offer of a large sum of money in your circumstances was very tempting. I did something bad once, a long time ago, and was paid a large amount of money. Once you get a stake, you can make it grow.’
‘I wanted a little club of my own. Before it was too late.’
Briony nodded, as if understanding him, agreeing with him. ‘But the reason you’re here, Evander, is because my niece Liselle knows you exist, Liselle knows about you. No other reason. You understand me?’
He licked dry lips and nodded furiously.
‘I will provide you with money, a car and decent clothes. Also a place to live. You, for your part, will make friends with your daughter, or at least try to. I want her to see you as you once were. If everything works out well, I’ll give you enough to open a club. So my advice to you is, think long and hard about what I just said. The ball is in your court. I want my niece to have a few good memories to take her through her life. You will be one of them.’
To herself she thought, God knows she’ll need them after these last few days.
It was the week before Christmas and the snow was piled high. It was a windowsill winter, as the wags said on the market stalls. The snow cleaned up London while it lay thick, and even the bomb sites looked picturesque.
Evander was now on relatively good terms with his daughter and Kerry was relieved that the trouble was over at last.
Briony, for her part, had pushed it all from her mind, concentrating on getting Evander and Liselle at least partly reconciled. She knew that they had talked a couple of times well into the night and this pleased her immensely.
If Liselle could get some idea of her background it would make her situation easier to bear. There was a marked change in her. She seemed quieter, more controlled. Her easy laugh had disappeared and Briony mourned for the innocent girl that was gone much as she loved the woman who was emerging. Molly was still getting what she termed the ‘bum’s rush’ from everyone, and Briony hoped this taught her a lesson. Even poor old Rosalee was overlooked in the effort to make their mother pay for what she had done.
Evander seemed to have come into his own once he had money in his pocket and at least the appearance of independence. Bessie had whooped with delight at seeing him which pleased Liselle who didn’t know Briony had arranged it. Bessie made Evander out to be the best thing since sliced bread and he sat back and accepted the accolade, unaware that Briony had talked Bessie through it.
Kerry, after the trauma, was drinking more than ever and unable to function at work. Briony had had to put the hard word on Victor through the twins, and unknown to Kerry herself, she was going into the clinic in Surrey after Christmas. Satisfied she had done all she could for her family, Briony concentrated on Tommy and Mariah and the businesses. But there were two further shocks awaiting her towards Christmas 1947 and the first happened while she was out shopping.
Coming out of Fortnum and Mason into a thick blizzard, Briony stood under the canopy waiting for Boysie and the car. As she turned round she came face to face with Isabel Dumas and Benedict: a grown-up Benedict carrying a young boy in his arms. Briony knew immediately this was her grandson and the rush of blood to her head made her feel faint.
Seeing his mother’s face, Benedict frowned. Then, looking at Briony fully, he wondered where he had seen her before. She looked familiar. Very familiar. He smiled at her hesitantly. Briony looked into the face so like her own and smiled back, her heart thumping in her breast like the band of the Coldstream Guards. The boy in Benedict’s arms had the green eyes and red hair of his grandmother, though today Briony’s hair was hidden under a large hat.
‘Hello, Isabel.’ Briony spoke carefully, pronouncing her words properly.
‘Why, Briony. How are you?’ Isabel’s voice was strained and Benedict looked from one to the other in consternation.
‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced?’ His voice, soft and musical, was like a dream to Briony.
‘This is Miss Briony Cavanagh. Miss Cavanagh, my son, Benedict Dumas.’
Briony nodded to him.
‘And this little scallywag is my son, Henry. Henry Dumas.’
Briony put up a gloved hand and stroked the plump cheek lightly.
The child had a toy gun. He pointed it at her and said, ‘Bang!’
Briony smiled widely. The child was exquisite. Was beautiful. Was her grandchild. She felt like blurting out the truth there and then. But Isabel, seeing her expression, shook her hand quickly and hustled the others off, away from her. She watched them disappear into the snow-filled street, her heart breaking. She had seen her boy, her son, and her grandson.
She could see the twins in that child, the same shape of head, the same build. She smiled bitterly. He even had a gun.
Boysie drove up with the car and was shocked to see she had been crying.
Benedict waited until they were home before he spoke.
‘Who was that Miss Cavanagh we met? I feel I know her somehow.’
His father choked on his cup of tea and Benedict slapped his back hard.
Isabel shook her head and said dismissively, ‘Oh, she’s a madam to be honest. Did a lot of charity work in the war. Couldn’t ignore her after that. But she really isn’t to be encouraged.’
Benedict nodded. But there was something else about the woman, something so familiar it preyed on his mind for the rest of the day.
The next shock for Briony that year was even more serious.
Molly was beside herself with annoyance, continually telling poor Rosalee exactly what she thought of Briony and her gang, as she referred to her daughters and grandchildren. Mother Jones was bad again, and Molly’s time was taken up with looking after her. Unlike previous illnesses, this one was serious enough to have the doctor visit daily without being asked. Mother Jones had picked up a ’flu virus and it was really knocking her out. Molly was single-handedly taking care of the old woman who was now bedridden and incontinent of both bladder and bowels. Consequently, Molly was very busy and for this reason didn’t notice Rosalee’s unusual quietness. When she finally did, she was grateful for it. But Rosalee was ill herself. Unable to tell anyone exactly what was wrong with her, she just sat passively, feeling worse by the day.
‘What are we doing about Gran? Is she coming here for Christmas?’ Boysie, always the first to calm down after an argument, wanted to see her now, and his Auntie Rosalee for whom he had bought a beautiful brooch as a Christmas present.
Kerry shrugged. ‘To be honest, Boysie, I thought she’d have been in touch by now. I sent Mother Jones a basket of fruit. Abel’s really worried about her. I expected me mother on the doorstep before now, moaning about looking after her.’
Briony bit her lip thinking about this for a second. ‘Tell you what, how about me and you pop round and see the old girl tonight? That way me mother can either act as if nothing’s happened, or she can start her antics. Either way we gave her a chance. But I ain’t begging her. No way. This last turn out was all her fault, and if she does come for Christmas she ain’t drinking. Kerry’s bad enough.’
Boysie laughed. ‘Fair enough. Danny should be in soon, we’ll all go.’
Briony looked at the big man in front of her and grinned. ‘You’re missing your old gran, ain’t you? Big as you are.’
He smiled good-naturedly. ‘She’s a pain in the arse at times, but she ain’t really a bad old stick. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. We’ll go tonight and see how the land lies. I want to see Auntie Rosalee anyway.’
Briony smiled again. The twins loved poor old Rosalee. Other children might have been ashamed of her, but not them. They doted on her.
They were all missing Rosalee in their own ways, herself included. It was a sad fact that her mother and Rosalee went hand in hand. In fact it was one of her mother’s saving graces, the way she looked after her. Yes, they would have to go. For Rosalee’s sake, if for no other reason.
Bernadette watched her husband closely.
‘Why the change of clothes at lunchtime, Marcus? That shirt was clean on this morning.’
He turned from the elaborate mirror on their dressing table and chucked her under the chin.
‘I’ve got to see an important client today. As you know, Briony has expanded her clientele and now I have to deal with some very important people. I have to look respectable.’ His voice had the evasive quality she hated.
‘You looked respectable this morning, Marcus.’
He rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. ‘Look, Bern, I am getting a bit sick of all this questioning. I’m only changing my shirt, not having a bath to meet a fancy woman. Now will you just leave it?’
Bernadette bit back the retort that was on her lips and kept her peace. Fifteen minutes later he left the house without kissing her goodbye. That was her punishment for questioning him. Walking into her daughter’s bedroom she absentmindedly smoothed the quilt on a bed and straightened up already perfectly straight pictures. The girls were too old to take up all her time now, she admitted that fact to herself. Which was why she had too much time to think. Think about Marcus, and his increasing handsomeness.
Why was it a man could father fifteen children, a hundred children, and still look untouched? Whereas a woman like herself paid the price for her children’s birth in every stretch mark, in the sagging of her stomach muscles, in the spreading of waist and hips. Going into her own bedroom she picked up the shirt her husband had discarded and held it to her nose, breathing in the smell of him. His soap, his sweat, and, thank God, for once no smell of perfume. Cheap perfume. That smell had been there a lot lately.
She had known for many years that Marcus was a philanderer. He liked women and was in a job where he was surrounded by them. Beautiful women. Until now it had only bothered her periodically, knowing that as the mother of his children she held the upper hand. That was until about six months ago when she had first noticed the distinctive smell of cheap perfume. The same smell had lingered on a lot of his shirts since then. A cloying, orangey fragrance, a whore’s smell. Only this whore was still in attendance six months later and that worried her.
One night stands she could cope with, they were more or less an occupational hazard with Marcus’s job. But a permanent woman was a different kettle of fish. That meant commitment of some sort, it meant he was having regular conversations with her, maybe about Bernie herself and the children. It meant that Marcus was enamoured enough to see the same girl again and again. Maybe fancy himself in love with her. It meant a threat to Bernadette, her children, and their idyllic homelife.
It meant big trouble.
She put the shirt into the washing basket and sat on the bed. The house was exceptionally quiet. The girls were both round at friends’ houses, her cook and cleaner had the day off. Alone and troubled, she sat on the bed observing herself in the large gilt mirror opposite, finding herself sadly lacking in any attractions that might snare a wandering husband. The tears came then. Seeing her face in the mirror, screwed up with misery, only made her feel worse.
But the Cavanaghs were fighters. All the Cavanagh women were, and by Christ she had more to fight for than most.
She wiped her eyes, dragging at the lids with her fingers, enjoying the pain she caused herself.
She would fight all right.