by all accounts, and she’s already fallen in love with her new garden. Reckons there’s loads more birds to feed round ’ere,’ Michael Butler replied.
‘D’ya reckon it’s an act?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Hard to tell with Mum, but she seems chirpy enough whichever way you look at it.’
Having lived the whole of her life in Whitechapel, seventy-four-year-old Queenie Butler had been forced to up sticks thanks to the brutal cold-blooded murder of her beloved sister, Vivian. Vinny had found his mum a nice bungalow in a quiet road in Hornchurch, and both he and Michael were keeping a close eye on her.
‘Talking about me, are ya?’ Queenie snapped, as she walked in the front room. Vinny was her eldest. He’d be fifty-six soon. Roy, her middle son, was six feet under. Michael was fifty-one.
A doting mother, Queenie could not be prouder of her boys. She’d encouraged them to make something of their lives from a very early age, and they had. Notoriety and wealth were wonderful attributes for a man to have, especially if they had the looks to go with it. Both Vinny and Michael oozed charm, and looked much younger than they should.
‘I was just saying to Michael, that couple opposite seem nice. Spoke to me again, they did. Said you’re to knock there if you need anything,’ Vinny told his mother.
Queenie pursed her thin lips. ‘Don’t like the look of ’em. Remind me of those notrights who had the bungalow next to us down at Kings. Perverts, they were. Swingers.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’ Michael chuckled.
‘Well, I very much doubt the couple over the road are perverts or swingers. You gotta give people a chance round ’ere, Mum. You don’t want to alienate yourself,’ Vinny said sensibly.
‘I am quite capable of choosing my own friends, thank you. And I’m hardly gonna be bothering to socialize until I’ve given our Vivvy the send-off she thoroughly deserves. You spoken to them bastards any more about releasing the body?’
‘I rung the nick again this morning, but that DI Cater weren’t around. I’ve left another message for him to ring me back. I’d rather speak to the organ grinder than any of his two-bob monkeys,’ Vinny explained.
‘I don’t know what the hold-up is if they’ve got the lads who attacked Auntie Viv. Do you want me to go down to the station and make some noise?’ Michael offered.
‘I’ll tell you what the hold-up is, shall I? Our name is Butler. Always hated you boys since you made something of yourselves. Jealous bastards, because you earn far more money than they can even dream of,’ Queenie said bitterly.
‘Nah. Leave it, Michael – I’ll sort it. And don’t worry, Mum. Auntie Viv’ll have the best send-off the East End’s seen in a long, long time,’ Vinny vowed.
Turning away so her sons couldn’t see her misery, Queenie sniffed then put on her bravest voice. ‘I should bloody well think so an’ all.’
‘Harry, we’re in a restaurant now. Use your knife and fork, love,’ Frankie Mitchell urged.
‘Harry don’t know how to use a knife and fork,’ joked Georgie O’Hara.
‘Shut up, you tart,’ Harry said, grinning at his sister.
‘Please, Harry,’ Frankie pleaded.
Unlike Georgie, who had nice straight teeth and dark hair like their father, plus a cute button slightly turned-up nose like their mum’s, Harry O’Hara looked menacing. His mop of strawberry blonde hair rarely came into contact with a comb or brush, his nose was squashed like a boxer’s thanks to fighting, and he had a missing tooth at the front. He glared at his mother. He could not stand her; the way he saw it, she had ruined his once idyllic life. ‘Nah, prefer eating like this, Frankie,’ he told her. He never called her ‘Mum’ and knew that made her sad.
‘Do as your mother says, boy,’ Stuart Howells ordered. Stuart had been in love with Frankie long before they had got together, but she’d been so scarred by her relationship with Jed O’Hara, it had taken her ages to trust him.
‘Nah. You ain’t my dad, you can’t tell me what to do,’ Harry spat, his voice raised. In a lower voice, he added, ‘Dinlo.’
Realizing her fiancé was about to argue the point, Frankie squeezed his arm. People were already staring at them, like they usually did when they went out as a family. Frankie knew this was because of her children’s unruly behaviour and unusual accents. She’d often seen couples move tables, mumbling the word ‘gypsies’.
‘He’s been home nearly six months now, Frankie. You can’t keep allowing him to get away with the way he treats you,’ Stuart hissed, looking daggers at the child he loathed so much. Stuart had come to rue the day Georgie and Harry had been snatched from the gypsies and returned to Frankie. Their arrival had turned everybody’s lives upside down.
‘Leave my brother alone. Harry’s right. You ain’t our dad and you never will be,’ said thirteen-year-old Georgie. She was fiercely loyal when it came to Harry.
‘Now, let’s stop all this. I don’t want any arguing today of all days. This is Harry’s special day, and I want it to be perfect,’ Frankie said, smiling at her son, who was currently gnawing a lamb chop like a starving animal.
‘Special day. Silly old rabbit’s crotch,’ Harry whispered in his sister’s ear.
When Georgie whispered something back and both children burst out laughing, not wanting them to see she was upset, Frankie excused herself to go to the toilet. Once inside a cubicle, she pulled down the toilet seat, sat on it and allowed the tears to flow. How the hell had it come to this?
Harry had been a loveable four-year-old when Jed O’Hara and his family had disappeared into the night taking Frankie’s children with them. At the time, Frankie was residing in Holloway Prison due to stabbing Jed, and he had custody of the kids. Jed was an English gypsy who originated from Cambridgeshire, and his community stuck together like glue, so finding Georgie and Harry was never going to be easy, even for someone with Eddie Mitchell’s resources. Seven long, excruciating years it had taken until a tip-off from a traveller Frankie had met in prison reunited her with her children. It was one of the best days of her life, but also the worst. Georgie and Harry loathed her on sight and made it clear they didn’t remember her. Frankie had cherished every memory of her precious children and it broke her heart that to them she was no more than a stranger.
As Frankie dabbed her eyes and stared at her unhappy face in the compact mirror, she couldn’t help but think about the last birthday she’d spent with Harry. He’d been such a good little boy as a toddler. Gentle and sweet-natured. Now he was an uncouth, unrecognizable piece of work. But Frankie could not give up on him, or Georgie. It was her duty as a mother to love her children no matter what.
‘Mummy, where are you?’
Her youngest son’s voice snapped Frankie out of her depressive thoughts. Brett was Jed’s child also, had been born while she was in prison. But thankfully, unlike her other two, had been spared ever meeting his arsehole of a father, or sharing his surname.
Plastering a smile on her face, Frankie unlocked the cubicle and held Brett close. Georgie and Harry’s homecoming had turned his little world upside down as well. So much so, that lately Brett preferred staying with her dad and
