The man before him seemed nonplussed at his lack of response. Harry Limmington enjoyed the sensation he was creating.
‘I want you to give everything you collect on them to me, me personally. I think that between us we can nail them.’
‘You do?’ The two words were spoken low.
The man smiled now, happy to have a response.
‘I certainly do. I think you should know, though I have a shrewd idea you already do, that the Cavanaghs have ears in all departments. They know everything, or at least their aunt does, before you can say knife. To catch them we will have to get up very early in the morning, very early indeed. But you look like an early riser to me.’
Limmington smiled back then. A slow smile.
‘I think I get your drift, sir.’
The man rubbed those large hands together and smiled back. ‘All their big friends are getting cold feet these days, you know. The Cavanaghs are making a lot of enemies and now their so-called friends want them off the streets almost as much as we do. But it has to be done diplomatically, which is where you come in.’
Harry Limmington settled back in his chair then. Even his fear of breaking the porcelain tea cups deserted him. He knew what he was here for now, and the knowledge was like balm to him. He didn’t care how many big, well-heeled arses he had to save in his quest to get the Cavanaghs. He wanted them so badly he could taste it. Now it seemed they were within his reach.
Henry Dumas had expired at the select Sunnyside Nursing Home in Torquay, his wife and son with him. Albeit not so much from choice as for appearance’s sake. Now Benedict and his wife sat in the lawyer’s office with his mother, waiting for the final reading of the will.
Isabel, looking younger since her husband’s death, sat with her hands clasped in her lap, wishing this was all already over.
Mr Otterbaum the solicitor looked at the three of them over his pince nez and took a deep breath.
‘This will was made in 1951. It’s short and to the point. Your husband was never a man of many words, Mrs Dumas, as I’m sure you know.’
Isabel nodded slightly, thinking, Get on with it, you silly old fool. Before it occurred to her the man was younger than she was.
‘“I, Henry Dumas, being of sound mind and body, leave everything I possess to my natural son Benedict. He can see to his mother as he sees fit.”’
The three people sat up straight in their chairs, outraged expressions on their faces.
‘“As his mother is Miss Briony Cavanagh, I expect he will make his own mind up about that. My wife, however, Isabel Dumas, gets nothing, her father having left her well provided for.”’
Mr Otterbaum looked at them with a pained expression.
‘I can only tell you what your husband put down. I can’t begin to express my sorrow at the contents. It was drawn up by my father...’
His voice trailed off.
Isabel had closed her eyes tightly.
‘The bastard! The dirty rotten stinking bastard!’ The words were whirling around her head. She had not realised she had said them out loud.
Benedict looked at his wife, then his mother, with a stunned expression on his face.
‘What the hell is going on here?’
Isabel grasped his hand and shook her head. Then the tears came.
An hour and a half later, Benedict had been told the true story of his birth, and such was Isabel’s rage at her departed husband, she told it with the same cold callousness she knew he would have used. Benedict listened gravely to the story of a young girl giving birth at thirteen years old and felt the rainbow trout he had eaten for lunch rising up inside his stomach.
Now he knew why he had never liked his father, why he’d always felt a distaste for him. Now he knew why his father had never been to him as other fathers were to other sons. The truth of his life was laid bare and Benedict, not having the hardness or strength of his natural mother, cried.
Fenella Dumas, his wife, listened to the story with detachment. There was one thing in Fenella’s favour. No matter how much Isabel disapproved of her otherwise, nothing threw her. Nothing at all.
She was quite looking forward to telling the children. Natalie especially, being a golden sixties child, would absolutely love this. Their real granny was a tart of the first water. It was like something from the
News of the World.
Benedict, however, had different thoughts on the subject.
Briony, Kerry and the twins sat drinking weak coffee and talking about the wedding. It was the first time Kerry had shown a spark of interest in anything for years. She wanted to know where it was, what they were wearing, what they were going to eat. She wanted to know every detail. Her face was animated and Briony detected something of the old Kerry then, the live wire Kerry of her youth, and this spark saddened her.
Boysie sipped his coffee and took a large bite of a cheese sandwich. ‘I was wondering, Auntie Kerry, would you sing for us? In the church like. I know that Suzannah would love that.’
Briony watched Kerry’s face close. ‘Oh, I don’t know...’
‘Come on, Kerry, we can’t have a marriage and you not sing. You always sing at everything.’ Briony’s voice was light.
Kerry lit a cigarette and shook her head. ‘I ain’t sung properly for years, Bri ... I don’t even know if I still can.’
Briony gripped the arms of her chair and laughed out loud. ‘I’ll tell you what, let’s have a go. Me and you. I’ll help you. We’ll practise every day, see how it goes. What do you think, boys?’
‘I think Boysie’s wedding won’t be the same without his favourite aunt singing for him. Come on, Auntie Kerry, you can pick the number yourself. We’ll get Bessie’s old band, they’re still going strong. Last I heard they was at Ronnie Scott’s. What do you say? Bessie will be going anyway.’
Kerry began to feel a thrill of enthusiasm surging through her body.
‘Well, I can give it a try. I heard a great number the other day actually ... It was on the wireless...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I don’t know, boys, I don’t know if I can still hack it.’
Boysie and Daniel grinned at her, identical grins, showing identical teeth.
‘’Course you can. Us Cavanaghs can do anything!’
Kerry smiled and took another deep drag on her cigarette. Some of the Cavanaghs can do anything, she thought. But not all of them.
Not me.
‘Is Evander coming over for the wedding?’ Her voice was light.
Boysie’s face sobered instantly.
‘Would you mind if he did? If you don’t want him there he won’t be invited. Lissy will understand.’
Kerry sighed. ‘I don’t mind, Boysie. You have whoever you want, my lovely, it’s your day after all.’
Boysie kissed her cheek gently. She could smell his lemony aftershave and the remnants of the scotch he had drunk at lunchtime.
Her mouth watered.
One drink, that’s all she needed, and she’d sing like a blasted canary. The wedding would be laden down with booze and they couldn’t watch her continuously.
Not even the Cavanaghs could do that.
‘Did I tell you the BBC were after your aunt to sing on one of their shows?’ Briony told the boys proudly. ‘Since “Miss Otis Regrets” has been used for that perfume ad, she’s become quite famous again.’
Daniel shook his head.
‘Why don’t you go for it, Auntie Kerry? I’ve heard you singing to yourself and you sound OK to me. You’d probably be a guest on loads of programmes. Might even get on Simon Dee’s.’
Kerry laughed nervously.
‘Look at me, Danny Boy, I’m an old woman. Who’d be interested in me?’
Briony tutted loudly. But what Danny said had given her an idea.
‘Be ready at nine-thirty tomorrow, Kerry. Me and you are off out for a while.’
‘Where to, Bri?’ Kerry’s voice was suspicious.
‘You’ll find out in the morning. It’s a surprise.’
Marcus and Bernadette listened to their daughter with shock and anger registering on their faces.
Delia played her trump card by lifting up her grubby tie dyed tee shirt and showing them the bruises on her chest and shoulders.
‘He really gave me a hiding, but I took it to stop him touching the little one.’
All eyes went to Faith who sat on the settee eating an iced cake.
Marcus felt a great rage in his chest and instinctively put up his hand to stem the erratic pounding of his heart. ‘You mean, he’s been beating up you and the child?’
Delia nodded, her eyes big and round with self-pity.
‘And you never told a bleeding soul about it?’ Marcus’s voice was high with disbelief. Not at his daughter’s story, but at the fact she had taken it all this time without telling a soul.
‘That’s why I never wanted you up the flat, see? Jimmy had people there all the time, drug dealers, all sorts ... He made me keep you away. Then, today, he really went off his head. I thought he’d surely kill me or little Faithey.’
Bernadette swallowed hard. Her maternal instincts were telling her to protect her child and her grandchild, but her womanly instincts were telling her that her Delia, whom she had loved dearly even with all her faults, was a blatant liar. It was one of her less appealing traits but she had been like it since a child. She embroidered everything, eventually believing the story she had created. Bernadette’s eyes flickered to her husband who was now pacing up and down the room, his hands clenched into fists.
‘If Jimmy was beating you and the child, love,’ she asked, ‘why didn’t you ever tell us before? You stayed here for two weeks a while ago when you and him had the last bust up. Why didn’t you tell us then? We never even had an inkling that anything was going on.’
Bernie watched her daughter’s eyes flicker and her face colour up. Delia was floundering. She hadn’t expected anyone to question her. Marcus saved her when he bellowed:
‘For fuck’s sake, Bern. The girl was obviously terrified of him! Can’t you see that?’
Bernie held up a hand.
‘All I’m saying is, she had plenty of occasions to tell us, frightened or not frightened. I mean, think about it, Marcus! She don’t exactly come from a family that scares easily, does she? What with you as her father, and Briony and the boys. This Jimmy Sellars must be some kind of prat if he thought he could get away with all she reckons!’
Delia jumped from her seat, her voice hysterical.
‘That’s why I never said nothing, Dad, because she always takes his side. Always. I knew she wouldn’t believe me.’
She stamped across the expanse of the lounge and dragged Faith up.
‘Well, if I ain’t welcome here, I’ll go somewhere else, but I ain’t going back to that bastard to get me face smashed in.’
Marcus went to her and took the terrified child from her arms. Then, cradling Faith to his chest, he said to Bernadette: ‘I don’t believe you, Bernie, sometimes you bleeding well amaze me! Your daughter is standing here bruised from head to foot and your granddaughter with a black eye, and you stick up for that piece of scum! Jesus wept, woman, when you had your last face lift they must have cut into your sodding brain by accident!’
He turned to his tearful daughter. ‘You stay here, my love, and you leave that ponce to me and your cousins. He won’t be hitting anyone for a long time. Now, is he still at the flat?’
Delia sniffed loudly for maximum effect.
‘He ain’t there now, but he will be tonight. Late tonight.’
‘Then me and your cousins will go and sort him out. Now you take little Faithey and get her upstairs. If you need any money for anything, see me later. All right?’
Delia nodded. Taking her daughter, she left the room, giving her mother a last smouldering glance over her shoulder.
Marcus shook his head in disgust. ‘I don’t believe you, Bernadette!’
She shrugged lightly. ‘Obviously not. You believe her though, I take it?’
‘Sodding right I do! That long-haired beatnik has raised his fists once too often. Tonight he gets his comeuppance. No one touches me or mine without they answer to me personally.’
Bernadette allowed herself a little laugh.
‘I’m delighted to hear it, but listen to me, Marcus, and listen good. Our little girl is a fucker, and a lying fucker at that. Take it from me, mate, I know her better than anyone. So think long and hard before you go round and see that lad. He ain’t as black as he’s painted. Christ himself knows there’s been times when I’ve wanted to hammer the cow myself!’
Marcus looked at her, disgusted.
‘Where did the bruises come from then? Answer me that?’
‘I ain’t disputing he cracked her one, Marcus, all I’m saying is, she might just have deserved it. She could make the Archangel Gabriel get the hump when she starts her antics.’
Marcus shook his head at his wife and stormed from the room.
Bernadette sighed loudly.
She loved her daughter, she did. She loved both her children. And as big a bugger as Delia could be, she was her favourite. But Bernadette had always called a spade a spade, it was one of her few saving graces. And Delia could try the patience of a saint.
Upstairs, Delia put Faith on to her old bed and stroked the child’s red hair. Jimmy had left her after the fight, telling her he wanted her out by the time he returned. He had told her she was a fat ugly bitch and he wanted nothing more to do with her. He had told her she was soapy, like a great big smelly unwashed whale. That’s what had really hurt her. That and the fact he meant every word he said. He also told her that he had been seeing Olivia Sands for six months, her so-called friend. Well, he was going to get a big shock, because no one, no one at all, spoke to her like that and got away with it.
Least of all an acid head like Jimmy Sellars. And a two-timing acid head at that!
As Faith dropped off to sleep her mother stroked the fiery red hair inherited from her Auntie Briony and smiled down at her child, wincing painfully as she looked at her black eye.