The Chainmakers (39 page)

He motioned to the waiter for another beer. ‘Not for you,’ he admonished Dino gently, ‘Not until after the job is done. You have the stuff?’

Dino nodded. ‘No problem boss. There’s still lots of war surplus around.’

‘Grenade or bomb?’ Giovanni asked.

Dino grinned. ‘Both.’

‘Good. There must be no mess up Dino, this time he must be killed. Mind you, I quite like the idea of Paolo Vetti suffering a bit before he dies.’

~

In the event Paolo did not suffer. When Dino threw the bomb into the bedroom of the bungalow at two in the morning, Paolo died instantly. Jennie, lying in his arms in the big double bed, survived until the ambulance arrived, but was dead before it reached the hospital.

Anna Sullivan woke with a start. The rug had slipped down to the deck and it was almost dark. For a moment she hardly knew where she was, then realised she had fallen asleep in the deckchair. She shivered, the night air had a chill to it, and her dreams... if dreams they were... had disturbed her.

She got up from the deckchair wearily and made her way to her stateroom, meeting the cabin steward in the corridor. On impulse she asked him to bring her a whisky and soda, and waited while he opened her cabin door. Once inside, she assuaged her guilt at having ordered such an unfeminine drink, by telling herself that the whisky was medicinal, she had asked for it because she had become cold on deck. She liked whisky, and drank it occasionally at home in New York, but never in public, although she had noticed that some of the bright young things on the ship seemed to drink whatever they liked.

Bright young things. She sat in front of her dressing mirror and looked at herself minutely, realising she had not done this for a very long time. Bright young things, she thought again, so sure of themselves and so frivolous, like that awful Betty Neville.

I'm not a bright young thing. Thirty seven now, and a month ago most people would have said I didn't look it. I do now. Strange how grief and stress affects ones looks. I don't think I ever was a bright young thing, not even in France. I was young, and a bit silly perhaps, but I never... no, not in all my life... never was I frivolous, I always had to work too hard.

Perhaps that was the problem. What was it Clancy had said, that awful night when they heard of the bombing and she had screamed at him, yes, screamed like a fishwife, that it was all his fault and that Paolo and Jennie would be alive if only he hadn't stopped her from warning them...

She sighed. There you go again, no point in going over it, it always comes out the same. You know it wasn't Clancy's fault, it wasn't anyone's fault, except perhaps Vittorio and all he stood for. But if she knew it wasn't Clancy's fault why did she still blame him? Why had her bitterness led her to suggest this trial separation? She could hear herself, hear her own voice tight and controlled, proposing this trip as a way of their avoiding each other for a while. She stared at the mirror but could see only Clancy's face, the hurt in the Irish eyes. Then the cool response, 'If that is what you wish, I've no objection.'

She started as there was a knock on the door. It was the steward with her whisky and soda. 'Will that be all madam?'

'Yes, thank you. Good night.'

'Good night Mrs. Sullivan.'

She sat down at the dressing table again and sipped her whisky. What had she been trying to remember? Oh yes, what it was that Clancy had said that awful night... about her being obsessed by money and putting the business before everything else, dealing with gangsters in spite of the risk to James's safety...

And then that awful moment, when she had screamed how dare he say that, he was not even James's father... She could still hardly believe she had uttered those dreadful words, and the look of shock on Clancy's face still haunted her. She knew now that she was so stung by his accusations that she had been trying to hit back in any way she could, but she would never forgive herself for those words and she could not take them back.

Was it true what Clancy had said? Perhaps it was. She had certainly insisted on continuing to supply liquor at the restaurants when Prohibition came in, but she had never realised it would lead to James becoming involved... She gave a rueful smile at her reflection. She had not realised... any more than Clancy had realised what would happen when he forbade her to get in touch with Paolo and Jennie.

What a mess. And afterwards... whoever was it that coined the phrase "gentlemen of the press?" Gentlemen they certainly were not, and neither were the police, with their questions about Paolo and Jennie meeting at the restaurant, and the endless digging into how much she knew about Vittorio's activities.

Anna sipped her whisky, wondering again why she was making this trip. It had seemed logical at the time, she could hardly wait to get away. Clancy's presence made her nervous, they needed to talk but didn't seem to know where to begin. Perhaps she had been trying to escape from the whole situation, the press and the police, James's grief, her own grief at having lost her dearest woman friend, and of course, Paolo. Dear, funny, handsome Paolo, she thought, with his overactive ego and his charming good manners. There would be no more red roses on her birthday... ever again.

It wasn't simply escape, even if that was part of it. She longed to see Will again. She wondered if her brother would still be the same. Was he still so calm and dependable, or had his stoicism been destroyed along with Billy in Gallipoli? She thought of Mary and Dottie, now married herself, and Andrew, who she had never seen, and who she thought of as "little Andrew" although he was seventeen now.

And Florence. How strange it would be to visit High Cedars again and see the old lady, now in her seventies, and to hear news of Robert perhaps. Anna began to undress, wondering if Florence had received her letter. She had written that she would call at High Cedars first, as she would be staying in Birmingham overnight and could easily call at Edgbaston before making the final journey to Will's new home.

I wonder if my picture is still on the wall in the sitting room, she thought, and had a sudden desire to see "The Chainmaker's Child" again. It was as if in looking at the picture she might find a clue to herself, who she really was. Had she truly become what Clancy said, an obsessive businesswoman, who put money and success before everything else, even her own son? Another thought struck her. Was it her experience of the good life at High Cedars, and her rejection by Robert which had made her so determined to succeed?

At least she was thinking about things at last, she realised with some surprise, perhaps the trip was doing her good after all. For weeks her brain had seemed turned to jelly and her thoughts nothing but an incoherent jumble of contradictory emotions, but today, at last, she was able to think more clearly.

She got into bed and turned out the lamp, still considering Clancy's hurtful words. In spite of their recent troubles she had to admit Clancy had been a good husband and friend. She felt tears sting her eyes as she remembered the daily kindnesses, his loving care of herself and James, and the freedom he had always allowed her, so unlike the husbands of some of her acquaintances in New York.

She snuggled into her pillow. She missed Clancy, missed his physical presence, it felt so strange to be alone. She suddenly remembered a quiet moment some years before, when after making love she was lying in Clancy's arms and he had told her how much he loved her. She had smiled and snuggled into his neck, and he had said softly, 'And you Anna? You have never told me you love me...'

She recalled the moment of sudden panic his words had caused. She had smiled and said  'Don't be silly...' but she could not say the words she knew he needed to hear. In all the years of their marriage she had never said 'I love you Clancy.'

How strange to recall that feeling here, in her lonely bed in the stateroom aboard the "Ocean Star," and to know, if she was honest, that nothing had changed. Why was that?

The answer came, like icicles dripping the cold truth into her numbed brain. She had never been able to say  "I love you" to Clancy
because he was not Robert
.

Anna stared fixedly at the picture. "The Chainmaker's Child" seemed less impressive than she remembered, and to her surprise it had little effect upon her. If she was truthful she had to admit it was well painted, although the brushwork could not compare with Sylvie's. It was the subject matter which was all wrong. It was untruthful, she thought, an idealised version of the event, as she had tried to explain to Robert so many years ago when they had toasted muffins at Dudley castle. The beautiful apple cheeked child bouncing on the bellows, her golden hair flying against the sparks of the chainshop, bore little resemblance to her memory of herself at that age. And yet, she reflected, who was she to say the image was untrue if that was what the painter saw?

She smiled, remembering how excited she had been when the whole family had trudged off to Dudley Art Gallery to see "our Anna on the wall." Then, her young eyes had revelled in this false portrayal of herself, but since that time her critical faculties had been developed, and she had Robert to thank for that, for lighting her first spark of interest. In New York she had attended many galleries and exhibitions, (often in the company of Jennie, she recalled with a pang) and she had been privileged to see some of the best work of both early and modern painters. She suddenly realised that she still considered Sylvie's painting to be superb, whereas "The Chainmaker's Child" now seemed self indulgent, amateur...

The sitting room door opened and Florence came in slowly, leaning on a stick and attended by a hovering maid. She seemed to have shrunk to two thirds of her original size, and peered carefully at Anna through a lorgnette, secured around her neck by a black velvet ribbon. Her eyes however, were as blue and lively as ever.

'Anna? Anna Gibson? Is it really you?'

'Yes, Florence. After all these years it is me. You were expecting me of course?'

'Oh yes. I had your letter almost two weeks ago. I was so delighted, so happy...'

They embraced, and then the maid helped the old lady to a chair, and said, 'I'll make some tea for you and your visitor, Mrs. Nicholson.'

Florence smiled sweetly, and as the maid departed she said, 'Come and sit near me Anna, so I can see you properly. My, what a grand lady you have become. Look at this... and this...' Her frail old fingers smoothed the rose velvet of Anna's walking suit, lingering on the braid trim, and then travelling to the exquisite cameo brooch on Anna's lapel. She stopped. 'Oh my goodness! How rude of me to comment on your dress, what will you think of me?' Her tone became confidential. 'It's not often I have such an elegant visitor these days, my manners are deserting me as I grow older.'

Anna laughed. 'Oh Florence, it is so good to see you. And as for manners, do you remember the first time I came here, and you had to tell me I didn't have to clear everything on my plate at dinner?'

The next hour was spent in happy recollection for both women. As they enjoyed their tea, Florence was anxious to fill in the gaps concerning Anna's life in New York, her knowledge being limited to the news contained in the annual letters they had always exchanged at Christmas. Her questions reassured Anna that although physically she was frail, Florence's mental abilities were unimpaired. Anna found herself immediately at ease, as had happened when she met Florence so long ago. For the first time since Jennie's death, Anna felt that particular empathy which arises unbidden between close women friends, and she had to fight the urge to pour out all her troubles to the old lady. She resisted this impulse, realising that the pressures of Prohibition would be hard for anyone in England to understand, and instead turned the conversation to Florence and her family.

Florence chatted amiably about her eldest son Andrew and his success in the family business, and Anna noticed that she seemed reluctant to mention Robert. Eventually Anna took the initiative.