up their offers of help, do you?’
‘Haven’t needed to. And I can yell out o’ the winder at people, if needs be. Don’t think I’m relyin’ on you ’n’ Beth to that extent.’ Matilda looked a bit sheepish because she knew that last statement was completely untrue. Bethany lived closer than Alice but had just had her second child, Joey, so wasn’t able to help out as often as Alice. ‘Can get about on me own if it comes to it ... just slowly,’ Matilda mumbled.
‘You’ve got to come to mine for a while,’ Alice insisted, setting the cups on the table in readiness for tea. ‘If you really want to come back to this fleapit when you’re better ...’ She shrugged as she glanced about with distaste at the room in which her mother chose to live. She and her sisters had been brought up in a couple of equally squalid rooms. That tenement house had been near the junction with Seven Sisters Road, at the rougher end of the street. Tilly had moved in the right direction and her home was now situated close to Paddington Street, which sliced Campbell Road into two distinct halves. As far as all the Keiver girls were concerned, Campbell Road, top or bottom, was a slum. Sophy, Alice, Beth and Lucy had promised themselves from an early age to escape the Bunk, as the road was nicknamed due to its proliferation of dosshouses. And they’d all made good on their vows.
‘Ain’t going nowhere,’ Tilly enunciated, planting her palms on the tabletop and leaning towards her daughter. ‘And no time fer tea. You’d best be off home right now if you don’t want Josh to be late getting hisself to work.’
Alice buttoned her coat with a sigh at her mother’s curt dismissal. It was better to leave her to stew in her own juice than end up bickering with her.
‘D’you reckon Lucy might be getting itchy feet?’ During their stroll Alice had avoided discussing the subject. She’d listened to Matilda puffing and panting with the effort of walking along so hadn’t wanted to put any additional pressure on her. Alice had mulled things over in her mind as she’d kicked through autumn leaves in Finsbury Park. And she knew that, quiet as her mother had been beside her, she was also brooding on what Margaret Lovat had told them about Lucy.
‘She’d best not have got herself sacked,’ Matilda replied grumpily. ‘Or she’ll have me to answer to.’
‘Lucy wouldn’t get herself sacked, Mum,’ Alice said with a rueful smile. She liked to think she knew her little sister better than anyone. If Lucy was moving on, Alice reckoned it was because she’d chosen to do so. At present Sophy and Lucy visited only about twice a year and, whereas Alice accepted that Sophy and Danny were now settled elsewhere, she’d harboured a hope that Little Luce, still single and fancy-free, might one day return to London to work so they could see more of one another.
But her youngest sister wouldn’t want to come back to Campbell Road to live. That was certain.
‘That ain’t what we agreed.’
‘What you talking about ... what we agreed?’
The woman listening outside the door recognised her husband’s mean, scoffing voice.
‘We didn’t agree nuthin’, as I recall.’
‘Reckon you must have a right problem with yer memory then. I told you a monkey, and a monkey it is, or no deal.’
Winifred Finch shrank aside as, through a sliver of space, she saw her husband whip a glance her way. In her eagerness to concentrate on what was going on she’d gripped tightly at the door knob, making it squeak in protest. She crept backwards, still craning her neck in the hope of hearing more.
The two men had frozen at the suspicious sound with their fists planted on the table and their torsos almost touching across its square cloth-covered top. A single lamp was burning to one side of them and it put sallow colour on their snarling profiles, and jagged shadows on the opposite wall.
The younger of the men suddenly sprang half out of his chair and swept the gold on the table towards him with the edges of his palms. Broad, bristle-backed fingers then crouched protectively over the jewellery as he slunk down into his seat. ‘You don’t want this fair and square,’ William Black spat, ‘don’t fucking have it. I got other places to go. This ain’t high street crap, y’know, Finchie. This is stuff most likely come out of Tiffany’s and Mappin & Webb and the like. I’ll have people rip me arm off to get hold of it, so fuck you.’
‘Now ... now ... now ...’ the older man soothed. His slitted eyes darted back to the glitter visible beneath his associate’s hand. He was sure his wife was spying but he’d deal with the nosy cow later. He relaxed back in his chair and spread his arms, gesturing for a truce. ‘Didn’t say I don’t want it, did I, Bill? Just said we ain’t agreed a price yet. Certainly ain’t agreed the sum you come out with.’ He snorted a laugh, hoping he was conveying how farcical he thought Bill’s figure. His mockery sounded false and nervous, and did nothing to alleviate the tension in the gloomy room.
Eddie Finch had known Bill Black for many years. He did business with him on a regular basis despite Bill living Lambeth way and Eddie being an Islington resident. Bill might turn up, unannounced, any evening, and unload from his car several cases stuffed with stolen goodies. Eddie knew Bill made the journey to see him north of the water because he liked the way he did business. If Bill had any better associates over Lambeth way paying good prices Eddie knew he wouldn’t have seen so much of him. He’d no intention of being railroaded into paying over the odds. He slew a crafty glance at the jewellery.
This little stash was entirely different from what he usually got offered. As a rule Bill brought him a few boxes filled with luxury items of leather and linen, knocked off from some top West End store. But this wasn’t fifty quids worth of nice stuff from Derry and Toms or Selfridges, which he’d get a handsome profit on by channelling it through market stalls and clothes dealers. This was serious money. But Eddie wasn’t about to let Bill know how keen he was; neither did he relish getting into a scrap with the nutter.
For one thing, he had his wife and kids about the place, and he didn’t want a tear-up occurring in his own home. For another, Bill was almost half his age and about a stone heavier. He’d seen the damage Bill could inflict when in a paddy. Last week, when in a south London pub for a business meeting with another of his partners in crime, Eddie had seen a fellow who looked a right state courtesy of Bill’s vicious temper. Apparently, he’d spoken less than respectfully to one of Bill’s lady friends. Bill was known to have plenty of women always on the go. In all probability it had been a slag he had no real feelings for that had been insulted yet it had resulted in a bloke nearly getting kicked to death. Eddie could see that Bill hardly had a mark on him so the fellow must have either been too pissed to put up a proper fight or had a lousy punch on him.
Eddie’s excitement at the prospect of getting his hands on some lovely stuff had given him a racing heartbeat and guts that gurgled, but he’d no intention of letting Bill know he was seriously rattled. For a long, long time he’d wanted a plump sum to add to his little nest egg and Eddie reckoned he’d found one. He wasn’t going to let it slip away.
‘Winifred!’ Eddie summoned his wife in a bellow. ‘Take a drink, won’t yer, Bill?’
A diminutive woman with frizzy brown hair and a sullen expression immediately shuffled into the parlour from the adjoining kitchenette. A small boy peered about the edge of the door with huge dark eyes, but when Bill noticed him and gave him an exaggerated wink the child shrank back out of sight.
