Backstreet Child (20 page)

Eastwards across the fast-flowing River Thames, in suburban Ilford, Frank Galloway sat listening to Bella’s outpourings, a surly look on his heavy-jowled face.

‘You’ve got to be practical, Frank,’ she was going on. ‘Your father’s an old man now. Supposing the bombing did start. Who would look after him? You should get him to sell that house of his and move away. He could stay with you, now that I won’t be here. The house should raise quite a decent sum. After all it’s in a good spot, even if it is Bermondsey.’

Frank grimaced. Bella had always thought of Bermondsey as an area to be avoided at all costs. She had never been happy about visiting his father, not that she did very often. The factory smells and the sight of grimy warehouses and wharves always seemed to give her one of her migraines.

‘Another thing you should consider is the will,’ Bella continued, staring into a small mirror she had extracted from her handbag. ‘You ought to make sure he’s made a proper will. Why don’t you ask him?’

‘Be reasonable, Bella. I can’t just come straight out with something like that,’ Frank replied with a sigh.

‘Why not? He is your father,’ Bella said, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her little finger. ‘And you’re all the family he’s got. The problem would be if anything should happen to him and no will has been made. It could hold things up.’

‘I’m not exactly stupid,’ he replied. ‘I know the problems. In any case, Father’s told me more than once that I’m the only beneficiary. He must have drawn up a will.’

‘Can’t you ask his solicitor?’ Bella persisted.

‘I’ll do no such thing,’ Frank growled. ‘Look, when the time’s ripe, I’ll out with it and ask him, but until then I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

Bella gave him a blinding look and continued putting the finishing touches to her make-up. Frank ignored her and took up the Sunday paper once more. Bella was in her element, he thought with disgust. A tour of factories and military camps with a second-rate revue was not something she would have contemplated a few years ago, but things were different now. It was the first part in a show she had managed to get for quite a considerable length of time and she was ecstatic. There would be the usual johnnies hanging on like a lot of leeches as well as the other camp followers. Bella was going to have a whale of a time, and he would be left alone to fend for himself, now that Caroline had been packed off to that stupid finishing school.

Frank grimaced. If Bella thought he was going to sit in the house twiddling his thumbs every night pining for her she was wrong. She was right about his father’s will though, he had to admit. The silly old fool was just as likely to have put off making a will, thinking he was immortal. He would have to find a way of bringing the subject up without upsetting the old boy. Perhaps he should try to encourage his father to move out of London, maybe to one of those country hotels which had been advertising in the newspapers lately. That was it, he decided. He would speak to him the following day.

Bella jumped up from her seat as the front doorbell sounded. ‘There’s my taxi,’ she said excitedly. ‘Now you will take care, darling, and write to Caroline soon, she’ll be expecting a letter. Oh, and do get an early night, you look awful. ’Bye, darling, wish me luck. It’ll be a terrible bore without you, but at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I’m doing my bit for the war effort.’

Frank watched the taxi pull away from the front door with a scowl on his face. The only thing Bella would get satisfaction from would be doing her bit for that infantile producer and his cronies. As for the tour being a terrible bore, it would be more like one round of pleasure, if Bella had any say in it. Never mind, he smiled bitterly. At least her absence would give him the opportunity to pursue his own interests without constantly having to make excuses. Perhaps he should call Peggy this evening. He could play the poor neglected husband and father. She had always been a soft touch for that sort of thing. Or maybe he would write a quick letter to Caroline and then go off down to the pub and get well and truly plastered.

Frank went back into the house and flopped down on the divan. Maybe he should phone Peggy right away, he thought. The letter could wait for another day or two. The little bitch had not even bothered to answer his last letter.

George Galloway walked slowly out of Tyburn Square, leaning heavily on his silver-topped walking cane. He was wearing his black overcoat, with a Homburg covering his white hair and a silk scarf lying loosely round his bull neck. The old man’s pinstripe trousers had razor-sharp creases and his black button-up boots were highly polished, presenting a general appearance of affluence and self-esteem. George was a very proud person, who insisted on always being immaculately turned out whenever he took his Sunday constitutional.

The public house that George used was the Saracen’s Head in Jamaica Road, a small establishment which had an exclusive saloon bar frequented by the business fraternity of the area. The bar was well furnished and there was an open fireplace covered with brass and copper ornamentation. The landlord and his staff maintained a discreet attitude towards their saloon bar clientele, allowing them complete privacy to discuss their business without interruption. The arrangement suited the old man and it was the place where he often conducted his private matters.

When he entered the saloon bar, George was greeted by his solicitor and personal friend, John Hargreaves. The elderly solicitor was the senior partner of Hargreaves and Symons, an old-established company which handled the legal affairs of many of the local businessmen. Hargreaves was a tall, thin man with a large head and domed forehead. He was a hard-drinking man with a preference for good Scotch malt whisky, and his consumption of the spirit was a subject of awe by many who knew him well. The two men had a good deal of respect for each other, reinforced by mutual admiration of their capacity for the hard stuff.

Suitably supplied with double tots, the two found a quiet corner and sat talking.

‘I’ve managed to draft the document, George,’ the solicitor said, sipping his drink. ‘It covers the properties you specified, and it sets out the disposal clause. You’ll need to sign it, of course, and I’ve arranged a witness.’

George eyed the solicitor warily. ‘This witness, is ’e reliable?’ he asked.

‘Reliable? I don’t understand,’ Hargreaves queried.

Galloway put his drink down on the polished table-top and leaned forward, his hands cupped over the silver knob of his cane. ‘Listen, John,’ he began. ‘Yer know of the changes in the will, an’ ’ow it affects my son Frank. There’ll come the day when ’e’s gonna be sittin’ in on the readin’ of it an’ that day will be soon enough fer ’im ter learn that ’e’s not the sole beneficiary. There’s no need whatsoever fer ’im ter know about the gran’son now. So yer see, it’s important that the witness is reliable. I don’t want no bloody chancer witnessin’ the changes, somebody who might pass the information on ter Frank, fer gain I mean.’

Hargreaves sighed as he shook his head slowly. ‘George, you really are a crotchety old cuss at times,’ he said with the ghost of a smile appearing on his thin face. ‘You need have no fear. The witness will be unimpeachable, so you can rest easy.’

George allowed himself a grin as he swallowed the contents of his glass. ‘Anuvver?’ he asked.

The solicitor watched his old friend make his way to the counter with a sigh. It must have been a terrible shock for him to be suddenly told that he had a grandson, he thought, and at his time of life too. Frank would be in for a shock as well, when he eventually found out. George’s caution was entirely understandable in the circumstances. If Frank ever found out prior to his father’s death, it would do more than sour the already precarious relationship the two had.

George returned with more drinks and grunted loudly as he sat down in his seat once more. ‘Goin’ back ter what we was talkin’ about, John,’ he began, ‘yer know the position wiv Frank.’E’s got ’imself in trouble with the bookies in the past, an’ that’s ’cos of ’er, as well yer know. I don’t want ’im sellin’ orf those properties ter pay ’is debts. ’E’ll ’ave the business, an’ if ’e works ’ard at it ’e’ll ’ave a tidy bit o’ collateral. The properties in Page Street an’ Rovver’ithe are gonna set up Geoffrey’s son. I reckon there’s a good chance in that direction o’ keepin’ the Galloway name goin’, providin’ the lad gets a break, an’ that’s exactly what I’m givin’ ’im.’

‘That’s commendable, George,’ his old friend replied. ‘I think you’ve made the right decision. Those properties are going to fetch a tidy sum one day, when this war’s over of course. The land itself is going to rise considerably in value, and that’s a generally accepted view by people who know about these things. The option to sell without constraints imposed was a courageous move, if I may say so.’

George nodded. ‘I see it as a calculated risk,’ he said. ‘I’ll know ’ow much of a risk when I meet the lad next week. I’ll be puttin’ it to ’im about startin’ up in business. What sort o’ business ’e chooses is fer ’im ter decide. As long as ’e uses the family name I don’t care. At least ’e’ll ’ave the money ter start.’

Hargreaves sat back in his seat and toyed with his glass thoughtfully for a few moments before looking up at his old friend. ‘Don’t mind me asking, George, but is there a possibility that Frank and his wife will split up?’ he asked.

‘Get divorced, yer mean?’

‘Yes, that’s what I mean.’

‘I dunno,’ George answered, shaking his head. ‘If ’e does, it’s more than likely it’ll be fer adultery. Frank don’t say too much about ’im an’ ’er, but I can tell by the way ’e talks that they’re not ’appy tergevver. She’s got ’er own circle o’ friends an’ she’s never ’ome. I can’t stand the bitch,’ he growled.

‘The reason I asked was, would it make any difference to your thinking should Frank divorce Bella?’

‘No, it wouldn’t. That will is definitely my last will an’ testament,’ George said firmly. ‘Yer know, John, there was one occasion when I said ter Frank that in my opinion I lost the wrong son in the war. I was very angry at the time an’ maybe it was a terrible fing ter say, but I stan’ by it. That boy o’ mine is gonna ruin ’imself if ’e’s not careful. Geoffrey would ’ave bin a different proposition. All right, maybe it was my doin’. I should’ave made Frank come inter the business the way I did wiv Geoff, instead o’ lettin’ ’im go ’is own way. It’s that bloody pansy crowd ’e got in what’s changed ’im. Gawd almighty, John, that boy o’ mine lets Bella walk all over ’im. ’E should ’ave laid the law down soon as they were married. A few spanks an’ she’d’ave soon changed ’er tune, an’ as fer that daughter of ’ers, she’s turnin’ out a right spoilt little cow.’

John Hargreaves leaned forward over the table. ‘I’ll tell you something, George,’ he said quietly. ‘Men of our age should be mellowing, like this fine Scotch. It doesn’t do us any good to rankle inside, through harbouring grudges or thinking on what might have been or should have been. Let go, George. Think about the good things, like getting to know that grandson of yours. Take the advice of an old friend. Let go, before it kills you.’

George stroked the gold medallion that hung from his watch chain. ‘Don’t worry, John,’ he said, chuckling. ‘It won’t kill me. I’ll live till I die an’ I’ll go when it’s time. Is it your turn or mine?’

The short ring of the gate bell was followed by a longer note, and when Joe returned he was accompanied by a hollow-eyed woman holding a handkerchief to her mouth. ‘Get Rachel,’ he said quietly to Carrie. ‘This is Derek’s mum. She got a telegram this mornin’.’

1940-1

Chapter Thirteen

The first Christmas of the war was a very quiet occasion for the people of Bermondsey, and for the Tanner family it was also a very sad time, with Rachel spending many hours alone in her room. She had become hollow-eyed and pale, and unwilling to make conversation. During the day she worked as usual in the yard office but after the evening meal, which she barely touched, she would either go to her room very early or occasionally slip out to see her childhood friend Amy Brody. It seemed to Carrie that her daughter was heading for a complete breakdown and she said as much to Joe one evening after Rachel had gone to bed.

‘I don’t know what ter do, Joe,’ she sighed. ‘I feel so ’elpless. What can we say? How can we ’elp ’er?’

Joe hugged her tight. ‘There’s nuffink we can say,’ he told her. ‘It’ll take time. It’s early days yet, an’ we’ve got ter realise she’s still not over the shock.’

‘But she’s gonna go down wiv a bang if she’s not careful,’ Carrie said urgently. ‘I’ve tried ter get ’er ter see the doctor but she just nods. I wish she would. P’haps ’e could give ’er a tonic or somefink.’