All The Days of My Life (23 page)

I'll never forget Frames. Being in it was the sort of thrill some people get from owning their first home – everything in it was lovely. Basically it was a little eighteenth- or early nineteenth-century house in a little West End street. It had been a posh gents' hairdresser's, like they used to have in those days, where they'd shave you with a cut-throat razor, polish up your shoes and rub a silk hankie round your bowler before they hand it back to you. Anyway, the man who ran it went out of business and the Roses got the place cheap on a lease. It was Johnnie who got it done up – he had class, you see. That was one of the reasons Norman and Arnie Rose put him in charge. He could look like a gentleman if he wanted to. If the Roses had been in charge of decorating it the place would have looked like a clip joint. Johnnie had it painted up like a normal house – dark green, with a big carved wood front door and a little sign saying “Frames” in gold above it. There were big windows in front, covered with white net curtains. At night big heavy green velvet curtains were pulled over them. The ground floor had a bar and a roulette room at the back, for the small punters. The next two floors were all panelling and green baize tables and thick carpets. That was where the heavy games – poker, chemin de fer, roulette – took place. Subtle lighting, not so dark you couldn't see what you were doing, or the other fellow, for that matter, but not dazzling neon, either. Some nights around two or three, you couldn't see through the air for cigar and cigarette smoke and you couldn't hear
anything but low voices, the odd clink of a glass, the click of the dice and the odd smack of a card going down on the baize. A car or two might pass, but the sound was muffled. If you shut your eyes you might think you were at a vicarage tea party. If you opened them you'd see a lot of well dressed men, leaning or sitting at the tables, passing the odd remark, and maybe offering each other cigarettes from silver or gold cigarette cases. In fact they were playing high, in thousands, even tens of thousands on the odd occasion. Some of them would have staked their wives and kids if they'd been worth anything. I don't understand the impulse, myself, but there it is, some people have got it. Fact is, after we opened Frames it got fashionable and successful. I thought it was the most glamorous thing in the world. There we were, me in a long dress, Johnnie got up in a dinner jacket and bow tie, smart as you please. I thought it was my birthday – I had four or five long dresses including the black one, with the sequins on the front and the hem, and the flame-red one with the swirling skirt, made up of layers and layers of swirling chiffon, and the green silk which I wore with the pearl necklace Johnnie bought me out of the takings. Can you imagine how I felt, in love with handsome Johnnie, swishing around all night at Frames in the new clothes – after what I'd been through in Meakin Street with Jim Flanders?

Upstairs in the flat we had the big bed with the white fur cover and the white fitted carpets, the fluffy coloured rugs, the cocktail cabinet filled with every kind of drink – Bourbon, Tia Maria, the lot. Not to mention the big sunken bath with the gold taps. Looking back, I suppose it was horrible but at the time it was a dream come true. Ivy was impressed, in spite of herself. Sid wouldn't even come to the club to have a look. He hated Johnnie, like a lot of men did. They spotted something in him they seemed to recognize, and disliked and half-envied, too. But Ivy was partly carried away by his gentlemanly manner and the fact that he was loading her daughter with goodies. She almost forgot that thanks to him she was now in full charge of her granddaughter – because obviously I couldn't bring Josephine up in a club while I was working all hours. She was better off with Ivy, especially as I could afford to give her good money for taking care of the kid. But as I say, Sid couldn't stand the situation, or Johnnie, and the fact that the Rose brothers were the club's backers made it worse.

The Roses never appeared in public at Frames because they knew they'd be out of place in this well heeled, upper-class crowd. No amount of Savile Row suiting, handmade shoes and manicures from
Grosvenor Square could disguise what they were – mobsters. The fact that they existed behind the scenes was good enough. Because the law won't enforce gambling debts the punters had to feel there was somebody behind the door who would force them to pay up. And the Rose brothers were good at accidents – runnings over, fallings out of windows, surprise assaults by strangers in dark alleys. They must have had about sixty men on their unofficial payroll, some full-time, some part-time. They were always busy, threatening shop-owners in Camden Town and Canning Town who hadn't paid up their protection money, arranging for things to happen to their rivals, paying out money to women whose husbands were in prison due to accidents on the Roses' jobs, catching up with lorrydrivers whose loads had somehow not fallen off the backs of their lorries after the Roses had invested in them, beating up tarts who had handed over their takings to their poor old mothers instead of the Roses' appointed agents, or ponces. They had lawyers, doctors, accountants and policemen on the payroll. By this time they were like investors in crime – they never did any of the jobs themselves. They financed them, they invented them, but if the law came round the Rose brothers always had an alibi. It hadn't always been like that, of course. Sid and Ivy could remember them as boys from Wattenblath Street, picking up a bob here and a bob there, collecting bets and running them to the local bookie (off-course betting being illegal in those days) and generally picking and thieving and taking the money home to their evil old mother. It was the war which started them off, of course. Norman had something wrong with him, or convinced the army that he had, so he never had to join up. Arnie deserted and they never found him. That meant they could both make a good thing out of the black market during the war and after it–crates of whisky, nylons, sides of beef and God knows what went through their hands the whole time. They made a fortune. The old West London gangs had broken down badly during the war because of the confusion – when they came to re-form, there were the Rose brothers, young and keen, ready to put up a challenge. And they won. Officially they spoke of themselves as two lads from a poor but good home who had made it in the big world outside. They bought their dear old widowed mother a lovely house at Sunningdales and never spoke of her with anything but respect, in spite of the fact that she'd spent their childhoods looking for trade under the viaduct at Waterloo and laying violent hands on her children. They'd been terrified of her. I suppose they had a start in life you wouldn't wish on anybody. It's
probably no wonder they were rotten to the core, which they were, in spite of all their back-slapping and drinks-all-round and the horrible, frightening, meant to be friendly, smiles they gave you, which would curdle your blood if you didn't glance away.

Still, whatever they were like, I was in business with them, enjoying every minute of it. And as long as they stayed in the background the punters at Frames could forget about them, or take the line that they were bold, bad chaps, like cowboys in a Western, and not up to any real harm. It was only when you got into debt at Frames that you began to get the message that the Rose brothers weren't all that nice. And in the meantime Johnnie and I were standing in front, with Simon, who we'd taken on as an under-manager, and Johnnie and I had a white Jaguar, I had clothes, jewellery, ten or eleven pairs of shoes – I thought I was lucky, I can tell you. Like anybody young, I suppose I thought it would last forever. And then, of course, I had Johnnie.

“God, gel – you're something special,” he had said to her, that first night at Meakin Street. He was lying on his back, smoking a Players, in the big bed with the brass knobs. Mary smiled at him. She thought she had never been happier. They had only met the day before.

After the walk along the canal and the dinner at the posh restaurant he had left her at her front door. Afterwards he said, “I knew I could have had you that night, on your own doormat if I wanted. But I wanted to show a bit of respect.” Some time after that she realized that he had had to break with his old girlfriend also. Mary went to bed that night dazed and cheerful and apprehensive at the same time. Suppose he did not come back? Suppose he thought she was too young, or he did not like the idea of Josephine or he just thought she was not good enough? But Johnnie, a romantic, was on her step at eight next morning with roses. She invited him in. He said he had to go but that he would see her that evening. Mary, who had scarcely slept the night before, went through the day in an agitated dream. She managed, however, to get to the hairdresser, buy a pair of shoes and deliver Josephine hastily to Ivy at the time when she would normally be expected at the pub. She knew if she said she was going out with Johnnie, Ivy would question her, tell her to go to work and even refuse to mind the child for her. On the other hand, once she was gone Ivy could do nothing about it. She sat biting her nails at Meakin Street for an hour and a half in case Ivy found out she was not at the pub before
Johnnie came to pick her up. Then she was away, out of the house in a flash, sitting beside him in the car as they swept into the West End. He took her to a basement club in Gerrard Street, where, in the dim lighting, drinking the champagne he ordered, she met the people he knew. There were a lot of them, all known by nicknames – Tommo, Lil, Tic-tac – and everyone greeted Johnnie with some respect, offered him drinks, asked him how he was, talked to him in indirect language she could not understand, about things she didn't understand. She even saw Harry Smith's brother, in the corner, drinking beer. He nodded at her and put his nose back in his glass. On the other hand, though ignorant, Mary had sharp instincts and the normal acquaintanceship with crime of a girl from a working-class family. “He must be a cracksman,” she said to herself. Cracksmen, or safebreakers, were aristocrats. It was skilled work, clean and on the whole non-violent.

“Poor old duck was terrified, standing there in the doorway in her winseyette nightie,” he reported to a friend. “‘Don't hurt me,' she says, all-of-a-tremble. ‘Get back into bed, dear, till I'm finished,' I tell her. ‘I wouldn't lay a finger on you for all the world.' So she goes away and I get on with opening the safe. Before I go I shout out, ‘I'm through now, darling. You can ring the law.' She's a game old bird – she shouts back, ‘Thank you very much. I will.'”

The other man, and those with him, laughed. Their girls leaned against them, smiling. “Dunno where the staff was,” Johnnie added. “They must have been hiding in bed with their heads under the blankets. Still, though, you should have seen her in her nightie. I'm bent over the bleeding safe trying not to laugh.”

“You'll be the death of yourself one day, Jonno,” said the big man beside him. At the same time he looked hard at Mary, who had been discreetly examined a good deal since she first walked in. The women had appraised her. The men had just stared. Johnnie put his arm round her and said, “Ted – Mary Flanders – Ted Saunders.”

“Pleased to meet you,” murmured Mary.

“Flanders – Flanders –” said the man, trying to remember. Then he said, tactfully, “Are you any relation to Jim Flanders –?”

“I'm his widow,” Mary said firmly.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said the man. “Well – I'm very sorry.” But neither he, nor any of the others, looked at her strangely any more. Here, thought Mary, was a place where people did not act as if they were sorry for you when they knew you were Jim's widow, something to be said for bad company, then, she thought.

Later, as the men got more noisy at the bar, a girl came over and touched her elbow. “I'm Susie,” she said. “Why don't you come and sit down over there with us and leave them to it.” She nodded at the men. Mary followed her. There was a dark girl in a lace dress sitting in the corner. “Mary – Jeanne. Jeanne – Mary,” Susie said briefly. “Sit down, love,” she said to Mary. “They're getting to the boring stage over there. We're better off talking women's talk on our own.”

“Funny how they bring you out for the evening and then spend the whole time talking to each other,” Mary said.

“Just as well,” said Jeanne. “Who wants to hear what they've got to say?”

“You've got a baby, haven't you?” said Susie. “What is it – boy or girl?”

“A little girl – Josephine,” Mary told her.

“That's nice,” said Susie. “I'd love to see her one day.”

“Well – one day,” Mary said. “If you're round our way.”

The big man, Ted, came over with three drinks. “Two gins for two ladies and a nice big glass of champagne for Mr Bridges' companion,” he said, putting them on the table. “Here you are, girls – drink 'em slowly and remember you're always ladies.”

“Champagne,” said the dark girl, Jeanne, raising her glass and smiling widely at Johnnie. “How did you come to meet him?” she asked. The broad smile was wiped from her face as she looked at Mary.

“In the pub where I work.”

“How long ago?” persisted the girl.

“Yesterday,” replied Mary.

“Taken a fancy to him, have you?” asked Jeanne.

“Leave her alone, Jeanne,” Susie protested to her friend.

“Have you?” Jeanne asked again, peering at her.

“Yes – I suppose I have,” answered Mary.

“Well – watch out for yourself, dear,” advised Jeanne.

“Leave her alone, Jeanne,” Susie said. “She's happy.”

“So far,” Jeanne said. “She's a nice girl but she's had enough trouble. She doesn't need any more. You know Johnnie – love 'em and leave 'em, that's his motto.”

“You know him better than I do,” Susie said sharply.

“I suppose I can love him and leave him, too, if I want to,” Mary said boldly.