Backstreet Child (51 page)

How alike they were, Carrie thought helplessly. Rachel had the same dogged determination, the same single-mindedness. She would not be moved, and suddenly Carrie was reminded of Josephine Galloway. What agonies the poor child must have suffered to make her take her own life. It must never happen to Rachel, she vowed. She must always feel the love and security of her family around her, and know that they cherished and accepted her, no matter what. Her arms went out to her daughter and she pulled her close, her tears falling as Rachel hugged her tight, gently patting her mother’s back.

‘It’ll work out, Mum, you’ll see,’ she said tenderly.

Chapter Thirty-One

Frank Galloway sat reading the
Evening Standard
and he glanced up as Bella flounced into the room. Only that morning she had told him that her touring days were over and she would be with him in his hour of need, as she put it. The thought filled him with loathing for her. It was more likely that her latest fancy man was away and she needed a place to stay for the time being. She would not miss being present at the reading of the will and would no doubt act the sorrowful daughter-in-law for the benefit of those present.

Frank eyed Bella over the top of the paper as she busied herself at the drinks cabinet and noticed that she had piled on quite a bit of weight round her hips and waist. Not so long ago she would have gone into hysterics over half an inch, but now she seemed to have mellowed. Not so their daughter Caroline. She had adopted most of her mother’s habits and mannerisms and, worse still, she had threatened to move back into the family house, now that she had broken with her current young beau.

Frank hid his anger and tried to smile as he took the glass of whisky from Bella. He would have to be very careful how he handled things, he realised. His mistress had been sent packing only the day before Bella arrived back, though not without him having to resort to a backhander or two. Now he had to settle down to being the dutiful husband if he was to keep Bella from slipping back into her usual detestable ways while he sorted himself out.

There had been an unfortunate delay in the reading of the will. John Hargreaves had been taken ill at the graveside of his old friend and had been rushed to hospital. His firm of solicitors had managed to obtain an agreement to delay the reading until the doctor’s report on Hargreaves’ medical condition had been received. The elderly solicitor had been diagnosed as suffering from exhaustion and after a short rest he returned to the office. Things were now beginning to move. A date had finally been set for the reading of the will. There was also the new Bristol contract to be discussed, and Allan Wichello the bookmaker was getting impatient for his account to be settled.

‘It’s been a pig of a day,’ he sighed as he sipped his watered-down Scotch with distaste.

‘Poor dear. Never mind, you just relax an’ I’ll get you something to eat. You must be starved,’ Bella replied, not bothering to get up from the divan.

Frank put down the paper and loosened his tie. As soon as the reading of the will was over, he would know for sure what to do. The properties alone would give him the collateral he needed to set up an accountancy business. It was what he was trained for and it was certainly a more civilised profession than the transport business, he told himself.

On a cold Monday morning the Galloway family’s solicitor walked into his office feeling rather tired. The air raid had not been too heavy but it had lasted for most of the night and he had had little sleep. John Hargreaves had always prided himself on his efficiency and professionalism, and as he waited for everyone to arrive he awarded himself a large Scotch. Getting permission for Trooper O’Reilly to attend the reading of the will had proved to be no problem. The lad’s commanding officer had been very accommodating, and he sounded very pleasant on the phone. His other task had been harder. It had been difficult to locate the old lady, and making arrangements with the church welfare people to get her to the reading had taken up a lot of his time. But all was now ready and Hargreaves poured himself another Scotch.

First to arrive was Mrs Duffin, whose face was impassive as she was shown into the waiting room and sat down on the hard leather bench staring ahead. Next came Frank and Bella Galloway, he with his grey hair well groomed and wearing a blue serge suit over an immaculate white shirt and grey tie. Bella came in holding on to Frank’s arm. She had been well schooled in the art of presentation, and for her the occasion warranted something demure. Her two-piece suit was in grey, worn over a high-collared blouse which was buttoned to the neck. Her shoes were plain black and she carried a black leather handbag. She had not been lavish with her make-up that morning and she looked positively reverent as she seated herself next to Mrs Duffin without acknowledging her.

A few minutes later Tony O’Reilly walked into the outer office. He was in uniform and still looked tired after his long night journey from Yorkshire. He glanced quickly around at the gathering and then sat down next to Frank Galloway, who gave him a puzzled look.

Soon John Hargreaves came out from the inner office and smiled benignly at the assembly. ‘We’re just waiting for one more. Would you all like to come in?’ he said with an inviting sweep of his hand.

Chairs were set out facing the large carved oak desk, and as the visitors made themselves comfortable the young secretary put her head in the door. ‘The car’s here,’ she said quickly.

Hargreaves left the room and returned after a short while pushing a wheelchair. The occupant, an old lady, sat bowed, a tartan blanket wrapped round her shoulders. Her white hair was set in waves and her surprisingly lively dark eyes darted from one person to the other as the solicitor positioned the wheelchair next to Mrs Duffin.

Frank suddenly rose from his seat. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed. If it isn’t Nora Flynne,’ he said, going over and taking her hand in his.

Nora gave him a weak smile. ‘Hello, young Frank,’ she replied in a quiet voice. ‘Yer’ve filled out a lot.’

‘How are you, Nora?’ he asked.

‘It’s me legs, but I mustn’t grumble.’

John Hargreaves seated himself at the desk and when Frank had resumed his place, he looked round at the gathering. ‘As you all know, we are here for the reading of the will of George Galloway, and I would like to proceed forthwith,’ he said in his gruff voice.

There was complete silence as he opened an envelope and removed a single sheet of paper which he set down in front of him. For a few moments he stared down at it, then he adjusted his tortoiseshell spectacles, cleared his throat and began reading.

I, George Galloway, of 24, Tyburn Square, Bermondsey, London, being of sound mind and body, declare that this is my last will and testament. I revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions made by me. I appoint John Hargreaves, solicitor, to be the sole executor of my will, but if he does not survive me then I appoint any partner of the same firm to act as executor.

Frank Galloway’s jaw was set firm as he waited and his eyes stared unblinking at the elderly solicitor.

I give and bequeath my transport business, namely, George Galloway and Son, cartage contractor, to my son Frank, with the hope that the business will continue to trade under the family name. To my old and valued housekeeper Mrs Nora Flynne I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds. To my present housekeeper Mrs Ada Duffin I bequeath the sum of fifty pounds. To my grandson, Tony, I give and bequeath the residue of my estate including my properties in Page Street, Bermondsey, Wilson Street, Bermondsey, and Allen Street, Rotherhithe, the aforesaid properties as defined in the deeds of ownership. With this goes my earnest hope that my grandson Tony will use the properties to raise the necessary capital for the establishment of his business, which would trade under the family name.

Frank Galloway’s face had become ashen and his jaw muscles tightened. Hargreaves continued reading.

Should my grandson fail to produce an heir and fail to survive my son Frank, then the residue of my estate will pass to my only surviving son. In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand this 3rd day of December 1939.

Bella Galloway gave her husband a hard look as they made their way to Broad Street Station by taxi. ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she said for the hundredth time. ‘For years you’ve struggled in that damned business, and for what? The old man must have been senile. Fancy giving all that property to a grandson he hardly knew. It was yours by right. He had no reason to leave you almost penniless.’

Frank Galloway’s face mirrored his shock and anger but he made no immediate reply. If that bitch Gloria had done her job properly instead of relying on her friends he might have been able to have done something about it, but it was too late now, he thought. At least he had finally rid himself of her and her constant excuses. There was nothing he could do now about the situation which seemed so unreal, but was in fact only too real. Hargreaves had explained it all. There was no question of the old man being of unsound mind, and no possibility of there being a mistake in the identification of Tony O’Reilly’s father. There had been letters, and the birth certificate. Yes, Hargreaves had spelt it all out. The old man had got his earnest wish, a grandson to carry on the family name. It felt as though Geoffrey was laughing at everyone from beyond the grave, and Frank suddenly shivered violently. ‘At least I’ve still got the business,’ he said finally, and in a flat voice.

‘The business,’ she almost choked. ‘I shouldn’t think for a minute you’ll be able to sell it, not while there’s a war on. Nothing’ s changed, you’re no better off now than when your father was still alive. No, it’s damned unfair, it really is.’

Frank sat silently fuming as the taxi drove over Tower Bridge. His mind went back to his wedding day. He recalled the young woman who was so absorbed with Geoffrey at the reception, and he wondered whether she was the one who had become the mother of his child. It was just like Geoffrey to be so secretive. Why hadn’t he brought the girl home, or made an honest woman of her? Perhaps that had been his intention, Frank thought. Well, there would be no accountancy business now, unless he could sell the transport business, and as Bella had said, that was very unlikely at the present time. Maybe fate would intervene. Tony O’Reilly might get killed in action, but then again he might be wounded and invalided out of the service, or he might survive without a scratch. Then he would have his newfound wealth with which to set himself up in business, though he would probably fail and lose it all. As like as not he would squander the money.

As the taxi turned into the narrow streets of the City of London, Frank felt a black depression descending over him and he turned to Bella, hoping for a glimmer of support. She was gazing out of the window, her face set firm, and he knew that the very brief truce in their agonising marriage had ended.

Nora Flynne sat talking to Tony as she waited for a car to take her back to the church home for elderly ladies. ‘We were good friends once, yer muvver an’ I,’ she told him. ‘We lost contact after I went inter the ’ome. I’m sorry she’s so poorly. Yer will give ’er my love, won’t yer?’

Tony nodded. ‘Maybe she’ll come an’ visit when she’s feelin’ better,’ he said.

‘That’ll be very nice,’ Nora replied. ‘You must come too, if yer not overseas.’

‘I certainly will,’ the young soldier said smiling at her.

Nora studied him for a few moments and then reached out a bony hand and laid it on his. ‘Yer’ve just come into a lot o’ money, young man,’ she said with a deep look. ‘Use it well. Money can’t always bring yer ’appiness. It didn’t bring George Galloway much ’appiness.’

Tony gave her a big grin. ‘I won’t let it taint me,’ he replied. ‘When the war’s over, I’m gettin’ married. I’ll make it work fer us.’

Nora nodded slowly, her tired eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Yer got a young lady then? Is she from round ’ere?’

‘She comes from Salmon Lane. ’Er name’s Rachel an’ she’s a Tanner gel,’ Tony informed her, waiting for the old lady’s reaction.

She looked shocked and sighed deeply. ‘I knew the family, A Galloway marryin’ a Tanner, now that will be somefink,’ she said, nodding her head.

Tony smiled at her again. ‘Rachel an’ me know all about the bad blood between the families, but it don’t worry us,’ he said lightly. ‘It’s no concern of ours.’

‘Oh, but it is,’ Nora replied, her eyes widening as she looked at him. ‘Make no mistake about it, young man. Yer gotta remember, I was ’ousekeeper ter George Galloway fer many years an’ I know. I could tell yer fings, fings that’d surprise yer. The bad blood between the Tanners and the Galloways runs deep. The minglin’ o’ blood ’appened once an’ the result was somefing I don’t care ter talk about. You must ask yer muvver about it. She’ll tell yer.’