What Was Promised (21 page)

She makes tea for Cyril Noakes.

‘Very nice,’ Cyril says, peering around when he and Michael are settled. ‘I do like a nice front room. Some of the lot who move in now, they just don’t make the effort. Not like you, Mickey, you’ve never been short on endeavour. You’ve made your own luck. Is that a new stick?’

Michael sits uncomfortably in the unsoftened parlour chair. The new stick leans between his thighs. The other is out of sight, out of mind.

‘If it’s about the old man,’ he begins, but Cyril tuts.

‘Don’t worry about that. You slipped that one by me, eh? You had me going. But Alan told me all about it. That’s nothing to worry about.’

Cyril ducks at his tea. Somewhere upstairs, a wireless or record player sings too brightly.

‘Chilly, isn’t it?’ Cyril says, rubbing his hands. ‘We could do with a little fire in here.’

‘What is?’ Michael asks, and Cyril stares at him.

‘You what?’

‘What is there to worry about?’

Cyril puts down his cup and saucer. They give an awkward clatter. ‘It’s Norman,’ he says. ‘It’s, well. Mickey, it’s Norman and his missus. Not that she’s his missus, she’s not that soft . . . still, it’s her and Norman, that’s why I’m here. That and the man, McEachan. You’ll have seen about him, in the papers.’

Michael says nothing. He has seen the newspapers; has seen, too, the policemen on the streets. The Millwall man is in a bad way.

‘He wasn’t meant to be there,’ Cyril says. ‘Alan told me to tell you that, and he’s sorry for it. There wasn’t meant to be no trouble. McEachan’s alright, mind you, don’t believe everything you read – he’s got a sweet bump on the head, he’s not up to much talking, but he’s not as bad as they’re making out. It’s Nancy who’s the worry. That’s Norman’s missus. They used to be sweet, but not so much since he came home. It’s worse when he’s on edge, and the things he does for Alan, that puts an edge on things, I’d imagine. Six of one and half a dozen, it always sounds like with them, but six of one from Norman, I wouldn’t want to be on the end of that. I don’t suppose she does, either. She ended up in hospital this time. They took her in last night, up Bethnal Green Infirmary. She almost lost an eye. She’s two boys with him from before. It’s always been a nasty business.’

‘What’s it to me?’ Michael asks, and Cyril meets his look and flinches.

‘The police have been in with her. I don’t know if she asked for them, but they was called. Nancy’s been talking, that’s what Alan hears. He cares, and you should and all, because this time it sounds like she might have had enough. And Norman talks to her. He tells her things he shouldn’t, then he tries to beat it back out of her. And even if he didn’t this time, she’ll know he was working Tuesday. She’ll have read all about it, and she knows the things Norman does. You, well. You know what he does.’

Michael gazes down at the table between them. It’s an occasional table, finely inlaid. Mary laughed when he got it. He picked it up for a song in the summer, knowing she would like it, knowing it would tickle her. It was a good deal any way you judged it.

An occasional table!
she said.
It sounds a bit high-born for us. What does it do the rest of the time?

By God, he’s tired.

Cyril is reaching into his jacket. He brings out an envelope and puts it down on the table.

‘This is from Alan. Something for the job, a bit more to tide you over, and there’ll be a cut for you later. Alan means to see you right, you and yours, whatever happens. Meantime, he says to keep your nose down. Go about your business, same as normal, but only the market trade. The boys come to me for now. Your man too. You and me, you and him, we all steer clear of each other.’

‘Have they talked to Norman?’

‘Not yet.’

‘But they will.’

‘They might,’ Cyril says, ‘And Norman Varney’s a funny fellow, isn’t he? A fucking bunch of giggles. He might keep his mouth shut, he might behave, or he might own up. Christ knows, he might try and pin it all on you, Mickey. Whatever he does, you don’t know me, I don’t know you, and God help us if we ever did business with Alan. If anyone wants to know where you get your flowers and blades, it’s Oscar, and he’ll say the same. Oscar’s clean. You, me and Alan, we’re there for each other afterwards, but for now it’s each man for himself. That’s how it works. It’s for the best. Alright?’

Michael nods. Cyril sighs.

‘It’s a different way of business, Alan’s. He’s a harder take on things. I never liked it. I never meant you for that.’

‘I knew what we were about.’

‘I never said you didn’t. I ain’t saying you went in blind. I almost wish you had, but I don’t take you for an innocent. You might think yourself a hard man, Mickey, but I’m sorry you got mixed up in it.’

Michael nods again, accepting the rebuke, ever so gentle as it is.

‘Was it just for the profit?’

‘How’s that?’

‘The fellow, McEachan. Was he something, to Alan?’

Cyril shakes his head. ‘If he wasn’t before, he is now. Get some rest,’ he says, then stands, his voice rising. ‘Thank your lovely wife for the tea. It was good to see you, Mickey. Look out for yourself, won’t you? Onwards and upwards, that’s the way. Never mind the downs, and we’ll all meet up at the top.’

*

£1,200 GOLD ROBBERY

MAN GRAVELY INJURED

A man who entered the premises of J. G. McEachan and Brothers, metalworkers and brokers, in Marshfield Way, Millwall, late on Tuesday, attacked the owner, Mr. McEachan, with a stick, and having forced Mr. McEachan to open a safe, stole silver bars and gold wire valued at £1,200.

Mr. McEachan, 64, a widower, was asleep on his premises when he was woken by a noise. He confronted an intruder who struck him with the stick and demanded the safe box be opened. Having complied, Mr. McEachan was struck several more times and lost consciousness, not being discovered until the following afternoon, when he was taken to hospital with grave head injuries. On Thursday Mr. McEachan was able to speak briefly, and the police were called, but his condition has worsened since.

Police are pursuing other lines of investigation. A van has been impounded by police officers at an auction mart in the East End where second-hand cars are sold. In addition to the attacker of Mr. McEachan, a second man, the driver of the van, is being sought for questioning.

*

‘Found your name yet, have you?’

‘My dad wants to call me Henry.’

‘I thought you’d lost him and all, your dad.’

‘I’ve a new one now.’

‘That’s right, the watchmaker. Good news gets around, you see? And we keep our ears to the ground. Bible name, isn’t it?’

‘Lazarus.’

‘Lazarus, raised from the dead. Funny, the names people end up with. Funny old thing to lose at that, a name. Still, all kinds of things get mislaid, when there’s a war on. People, too.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve scrubbed up well, at any rate.’

‘I have to wash all the time.’

‘I should think so. Don’t forget behind your ears. Where you living now, then, Henry?’

‘I’m not Henry yet. I’m up there.’

‘The Columbia Buildings, is it? I always liked them, handsome things. It’s a shame the bombing got into them. Come back here in ten years, this’ll all be gone, lock, stock. That’s what the depot yard’s for – knocking it down, building it up. It’ll all be concrete a mile high, and all of us buried in it. How are your neighbours? Making friends, are we?’

‘Yes. Iris, Floss and Jem.’

‘Floss Lockhart, that would be. You’ll know her father, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how is he?’

Silence. Almost silence. Far away, someone is out playing. It’s hard to tell the game from here. It could be almost anything, Bulldog or Grandmother’s Footsteps, Robbers or Kiss Chase or It.

‘He’s not my friend.’

‘Well, no. He’s a bit big for the likes of you.’

‘He’s nobody’s friend. He shouted at Floss.’

‘I’m sure he did. She takes keeping in line, I hear.’

‘He’s got a new stick.’

‘Has he?’

‘I liked the old one better.’

‘What was wrong with the old one?’

‘I don’t know. It had a horse on it. It was a good stick.’

*

Sunday, they come for him.

It’s Alfred Shrew who sees them first. Business is good, the best in weeks – even those who should know better forget their thriftiness for Christmas – and the police make slow headway through the throng: big men muffled in heavy cloth, four of them, six of them, with Dick Wise in the vanguard, shepherding through the crowd.

‘Heads up,’ Alfred says, and Michael follows his gaze, lays down the holly in his hands, collects his stick and steps back through his firs like an actor into the wings.

At the arch of the Buildings he looks back. The police are out of sight. By the Birdcage he glimpses their van – a Black Maria, as if he’s as good as a prisoner already – and playing by it, his younger one and the orphan boy, in amongst their friends. There is snow in Iris’s mittens, snow in her hair. She is pretty as the mother she has always taken after.

He turns, loses his footing as the bad leg takes his weight, rights himself. Useless body! Already he is panting. Where is he going? He wants Mary, but she’s no good to him now, nor is he any good to anyone. Go anywhere, he thinks, but not to those you care for most.

He makes it to the car. The handle is ice, snow has climbed the wheels, but there’s petrol in the tank and a can in the boot. I’ll start north, he thinks: Start now and think about stopping later. His hands are clammy, they work slipshod at the starter, but luck’s on his side, the engine fires . . . and there, now, are the police, coming on in ones and twos, shadows in the arch.

‘Oh no, you don’t,’ Michael whispers. ‘You can’t have the likes of me, you bastards.’

The wheels slip. They grip. The car brushes a man – strikes him a glancing blow; there is a yell, the thump of a greatcoated shoulder – then he is through, and the market all around him.

A whistle starts up its shrill screaming. Michael wrestles the wheel, veers around the frozen water fountain. The car fishtails, corrects. Faces – hundreds, it seems – turn to him, pale flowers to his sun.

Faster! The car balks, jerks, mounts the pavement. There are shoppers idling even behind the stalls. What’s he saying? Something, something.
Get out of it, blast you! Out of it!
Punters shout catcalls, cheer and pull, shove and scatter. The crowd is on his side – everyone in Shoreditch loves an underdog. Laughing Boy is there beside him, an old man in dapper clothes, thumping the roof. ‘Go on, my son!’ he’s bellowing, ‘you lead them a merry dance!’

Now he’s almost clear – oh, he’s so nearly free. It is so close and so dear to him that he groans aloud through clenched teeth. The whistles are falling behind him. He guns the engine, risks a glance in the mirror, sees the Black Maria still unmoving on the corner.

When he looks ahead again the dark woman is in his path.

She is stopped on the pavement, one arm bent to her hip. She is looking directly at him. Her man is in the road beside her. He is at the last stall, buying flowers from Rob Tull – Christmas roses, wrapped in newspaper. They are all done up in their Sunday best, Clarence and Bernadette, as if they have just been to church, though it is not church they come from.

Her eyes are wide. Her smile of pain has had no time to fade. Michael turns the wheel. The tyres slip. This time there is no correction.

When he opens his eyes he is alone. His hands still grip the wheel: he can feel the pulse in his fingertips. He sways in the dusty hush. It seems to him that he feels the collision only now, after the fact: the force of it shudders through him.

The crowds are drawing closer, though they no longer have eyes for him. They are gathering beside him, by a figure who lies doubled in the gutter. Policemen are ushering them back. Dick Wise is calling out to them,
Gentlemen, is there a doctor here? Hallo?

A man begins to howl. Another asks to be let through. Iris is there, her face milk-white, her hand in the orphan boy’s. Clarence is down on his knees. His hands are fluttering, patting, stroking. He is calling his wife’s name as if she isn’t there.

She is, still. Bernadette looks up at her man. She says, ‘My baby. Oh Lord, Clarence, Sybil, my baby.’

Does she think she has lost her child? Is it a blessing that she is wrong? She is wrong. It is Sybil who will be saved. The baby – who, inasmuch as she has ever wanted anything, has never wanted to go anywhere – will be delivered, will go on. It is her mother who is dying. Even now, as Clarence smooths her face and hair, the life that has come so far is running out of Bernadette. It is leaving her in pieces, with her words, with her breath, without it.

*

1968

(The Collisions)

1. Florence in June

Swimming pool colours: turquoise, azure, iridium. The shadows of ripples on the tiles, all tiger-band and giraffe-skin, their patterns gelling and rescinding in perpetual slow motion.