Tara (5 page)

George and Harry thought big about everything. They weren't scared to branch out with new lines on the market stall, they loved challenges, deals and living a bit close to the edge. Life to them was a series of poker games. Some they won, some they lost, but skill and keeping their cool kept the odds more often than not in their favour.

But now this mysterious phone call in the middle of the night reminded Anne her new-found happiness could only be precarious while her father was still out there.

'Was it about Mum?' Anne came out of her door and switched on the landing light as she heard George coming back up the stairs.

George looked at the Anne and a lump came to his throat. Mostly he saw her as a young woman because of her practical nature, her adult poise, but now with her face rosy from sleep, hair tousled, she was a small child.

'No, it ain't yer mum.' He tried to sound light-hearted and hide his rising panic. 'Just a problem down at the warehouse. I've got to go there now.'

'What's happened?' Anne could see tension in George's face and she knew he was hiding something. 'Who telephoned?'

'Now, now,' George turned her back towards her bedroom. 'It's nothin' serious, just a few louts making a bit of mischief, I expect.'

'Is it Dad?'

George's stomach heaved. Anne was perched on her bed now, eyes like two big toffees. Although he didn't like to lie to her, he knew this time he must.

' 'Course not.' He forced himself to laugh. 'Now back to sleep,' Arry's here to look after you, and I'll be back in two shakes.'

Anne did as she was told but she still pricked up her ears when George came out of his room again dressed. As she expected, he went straight to up to Harry's room on the next floor. Unable to hear anything more than a low rumble of voices, she got out of bed again. Sound carried easily in the tall, thin house and, with Harry's door open, George's voice drifted down the narrow stairs.

'Stay in the lounge,' she heard him say. 'It could be a trick to get us out of the house. Keep your eyes and ears open!'

Anne peeped round the door as the two men went downstairs. George led the way, rotund in his sheepskin coat and a woolly hat. Harry had pulled on jeans; his shirt was in his right hand. But as he reached the turn of the stairs she saw something was concealed beneath the shirt, something long and thin.

A shiver went down her spine. She knew that shape could only be a shotgun!

She wasn't exactly surprised to find George and Harry owning such a thing, they were ten-a-penny round the East End. But the fact Harry was arming himself with it meant he didn't anticipate her father turning up drunk and throwing stones at the windows.

Anne didn't dare go downstairs because she knew women didn't ask questions, they didn't poke their noses in; hadn't her own father made that clear often enough? Instead she climbed into bed with Paul, curved her body round his so they lay like two bananas and tried hard to shut out the images of George being hauled into a dark alley and clubbed to death, or Harry trying single-handedly to prevent a dozen of Bill's mates swarming in here to get his children back.

George parked his van at the end of Winthrop Street and looked towards the blaze in utter despair. There was over five thousand pounds' worth of stock in the little mission hall and it was obvious from the intensity of the flames that nothing could be salvaged.

Winthrop Street was narrow and badly lit, with mean little houses on one side overlooking rubbish-strewn bomb sites, wood yards and a totter's yard. At normal times it would be hard to distinguish anything at this time of night, but now fire lit the street up like arc lights.

Fingers of red flame flicked up from the narrow windows, licking the roof as if testing it. Popping sounds came from within as china cracked in the heat, then whooshing sounds as flames found an easier target in cellophane-wrapped towels and sheets.

But mingled in with the smell of smoke was the distinct whiff of petrol.

George could almost see the progress of the fire, he knew the layout of his warehouse so well. His paper-littered desk was already engulfed; soon the flames would reach the five gallons of paraffin kept for the stove and that would set alight the old wooden staircase that led to the small storeroom above. China ornaments were stored there, the floor littered with packing straw and that damned drum of meths he kept for the hurricane lamps.

Four fire engines were in full use, and dozens of firemen, muscles braced as they held high-powered hoses, yellow helmets standing out like Belisha beacons.

A crowd of residents from both Winthrop and Brady Street around the corner were huddled together, coats over their nightclothes, faces orange in the reflected light, some anxious about their own homes, others excited by the unexpected drama.

'I'm Collins, the owner.' George tapped one of the firemen on the arm. "The police called me.'

He had never felt so impotent. If someone would stick a bucket of water in his hand perhaps he could quell his fear and nausea. It wasn't just seeing a lifetime's work being destroyed in front of him, but the sickening knowledge that this was an act of revenge.

Three hours later the flames had been reduced to steam rising in the cold air and an acrid stink; the spectators had gone home to their beds. As the first rays of daylight appeared the firemen were reeling in their hoses, others stamped through the charred wreckage. Against the background of a pink grey sky the blackened walls and roof timbers of the old mission hall stood out in grim relief.

'To think it missed all the bombs in the War.' Old Mrs Graham shuffled out of number eight in an ancient dun-coloured dressing gown, and handed George a mug of tea. 'How could it have happened?'

'Arson.' Her husband behind her sniffed know-ledgeably, clutching a blanket round his shoulders. 'I smelled petrol straight off, there was even pools of it in the yard 'cos the fire licked it all up, didn't it? You wasn't doing it for the insurance money, was you, George?'

The police and a couple of the firemen had made similar remarks and at any other time George might have seen the funny side of it. He'd lost his valuable warehouse, his stock and in effect his business would take a tumble. With full insurance he would have been laughing, probably got enough to retire if he wanted to.

But there was no insurance. It had lapsed just after Christmas and he'd put off renewing it because he had other things on his mind. This was something he should have anticipated and it was another reminder that MacDonald wasn't just a drunken bully, but a devious and dangerous man.

Right from the night he had taken Amy to the Middlesex hospital and asked them to treat her under a false name, he'd been careful. And when Bill didn't come hammering on his door, he thought he had cracked it. His friend and fellow stallholder Queenie was the only person he had taken into his confidence and she was as trustworthy as the Pope. It was Queenie who had bought the children's clothes, the extra food, books and toys. She had kept her ear to the ground and alerted him to Bill's movements, the rumour and speculation.

But though he'd expected Bill to catch him one night in a dark alley, to have his stall smashed up, or his van trashed, tonight's events proved MacDonald had lost none of his cunning, the ability to plan; his hatred of George blazed as strongly as the warehouse fire he'd started.

George didn't drive straight home, he had too much thinking to do before he could face the children. As he passed Sid's fish and chip shop, and the MacDonalds' home above, he noticed the window upstairs was smashed and the front door boarded up.

It was no surprise. Two snooker halls, a drinking club and a pub had been on the receiving end of MacDonald's explosive temper already. No doubt the damage here was due to Sid giving him notice to quit.

'Amy won't be able to cope with this,' he muttered to himself as he motored on past Bethnal Green.

She had come within an inch of death. Progress was very slow, feeding her through a tube because of her broken jaw, pumping her full of iron, vitamins and antibiotics. If she were to read about the fire in the paper she'd be terrified that Bill might torch the house next.

'It's no good, mate.' He stopped cruising and turned the car around to go home. 'Either you get out there and finish MacDonald off or you find some safer place to send the kids.'

As he drove into Paradise Row he looked up at his house reflectively. He loved the fancy brickwork round the door and windows, the black railings and the wide steps. Once there had been many terraces like this in Bethnal Green, but between Hitler and half-witted do-gooders, most of them were gone now.

It was a whim that had made him buy it, prompted by the words of the song his wife used to sing.

'On Mother Kelly's doorstep, down Paradise Row.' He hummed the tune softly. He'd got it for a song, too, because it was almost derelict and he'd had more pleasure doing it up with Harry than from anything else he'd ever done. So maybe the neighbouring houses were neglected, but two had changed hands recently for a great deal more money than he'd paid for his. Other people would be charmed by the old gas lantern, the cobbled street and the graceful lines of a gentler period, just as he had been. One day it might prove
to
have been his best investment yet.

'That is if you can get Mac Donald off your back,' he said softly to himself.

'Put that away.' George pointed to the gun lying across the settee the moment he got in. 'If the kids see that it'll spook them.'

Harry ran upstairs to hide it and came back seconds later pulling on a sweater over a checked wool shirt.

'How bad is it?' he asked as the pair of them went through to the kitchen and closed the door behind them.

'Wiped out,' George said curtly, putting on the kettle. 'Everything gone. It was Mac Donald's doing, though whether there's enough evidence to put him away for it is debatable. But I don't want you running off half-cocked, 'Any. We've gotta think things through.'

George eased himself down on to a chair. He was exhausted, filthy and he stank of smoke. Harry glanced round at his father as he made the tea and he was shocked by the sudden change in him. He looked his fifty-five years now; his face had lost its ruddy glow, his shoulders were hunched in despair.

'It don't matter, Dad.' He laid his hands on his father's shoulders and massaged them comfortingly. He had a pang of guilt that he hadn't always worked as hard as he should, that he ought to remember that his father was no longer the stronger of the two. 'We can flog the land the warehouse was on, and we can get tick on new stock till we get ourselves together. Besides, I bet you've got a fair wedge tucked away somewhere.'

George had always been a constant in Harry's life, a boulder to lean on, a font of wisdom and understanding. Most of his mates had no respect for their fathers, but George wasn't just a father to Harry, he was his closest friend.

'It ain't money I'm worried about.' George's voice was shaky. He did have a few bob tucked away out of sight from the tax man and after a good night's sleep he'd be on top of it all again. 'It's Amy and the kids. MacDonald's a nutcase and he won't stop at torching the warehouse. This place could be next.'

'But why? He hates 'em anyway.'

George looked up at Harry and half smiled. He was such a handsome lad, that combination of black hair and blue eyes was enough to make any girl's heart flutter. But though half the girls in Whitechapel chased after him, George knew his son still hadn't found out what love could do to a man.

'You've got a lot of learning to do, son.' He shook his head and wiped his watering eyes. 'He don't hate Amy, she's probably the only thing he ever loved in his whole life. He might have taken out all his disappointments and failures on her, but he ain't stopped loving 'er.'

'He's a bleedin' shitbag!'

George sighed deeply. 'Now he is, but it weren't always like that, 'Arry. He should'a stayed in the Army, that's the place for men like him. But his weakness was Amy and that's why he come out.'

Harry raised an eyebrow.

'Bill MacDonald came back from the War a fuckin' hero.' George smirked. ' 'E even looked the part. The papers was full of what 'e'd done. Captured by the Japs, but escaped through the jungle taking 'is men with 'im. We all looked up to 'im, I guess that's why fifteen years on there's still blokes that want to drink wiv him and women still fancy 'im. Mad Mabel, Amy's mum, was the only one who reckoned there was summat dodgy about him.'

Harry grinned.

'The Witch of Durwood Street!'

He remembered the funny old girl chasing him down the road with a bread knife when he was a small boy. She'd had some sort of religious mania and used to stand in the market raving about hell and the end of the world. She always wore a long black coat and a shiny black hat and it had been a test of valour to play knock down ginger at her door.

Mabel had disappeared from Durwood Street some years ago and for all George knew she might now be dead.

'She wasn't ever as barmy as you kids liked to make out,' he said reprovingly. 'She had some sort of breakdown when her husband Arthur was killed at Dunkirk. Up till then she was a real beauty. Amy was their only child and when Mabel cracked, she took the brunt of it. Anyway, religion was what got Mabel back on her feet a couple of years later. She met some dodgy Holy Rollers and got sucked in.'

Harry's eyes widened at this glimpse into history.

"Then Amy fell for Bill?'

'Unfortunately. Amy was kept under. Never played in the street, made to go to church wiv her ma, wore dark clothes, just what you'd expect. When she was fourteen she went to work at Modern Modes, a right little drudge her ma made her. She must 'ave bin fifteen or sixteen when Bill came back from out East, God knows where she met 'im, she was kept under lock and key when she weren't working. But they fell in love and Mabel threw her out. She went down to Limehouse to stay wiv 'is folks. A right rough crew they was, an' all.'

'Go on. So they got married, did they? Was Amy up the spout?'

George shook his head.